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THE 


Count de Latour 

A TALE OF MYSTERY 


(189 ILLUSTRATIONS) 



WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED 


WILLIAM HENRY WATSON 


AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
DAVENPORT, IOWA 
1898 





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Babylon, the Queen of Cities. 


IV 







THE COUNT DE LATOUR' 

A TALE OF MYSTERY 


Chapter I. The Sphinx and the Lady. 

EING an ordinary man and mortal, hav- 
ing the few proclivities found in most 
men, I take this pen unhesitatingly to 
record the fact that I, Noel Payton, was 
a student in the Kensington Government 
School of Art, London. My nature 
bent towards art, more than any other 
sphere of action; so much, I regret to 
say, could not be said of some of my 
fellow students. I found them to be 
much varied in temperament, many were not artists — in the 
proper acceptation of the word. 

I mention this truth because I was brought in contact with 
Henry Craggs, the last personage of a line of entities who 
encompassed my whole life. I was imbued with Pope’s 
philosophy 'that everything in existence was right, and 
as I look back and pride myself upon regretting nothing — 
no, not even the mighty happenings which almost crushed me 
into despair, in order to purge my mind in the crucible, to clear 
and purify it. Thus becoming a worthy scribe of this great 
mission. 

Henry Craggs always had that birth-mark; he avoided 
mention of his antecedents. The poor fellow was keenly sensi- 
tive to my glance, and he verily believed I read his thoughts, I 
say I never did, nor could I become so rude to a fellow pupil. 
Ho looked at other pupils fearlessly, but his eyes always fell on 
meeting mine — deep lustrous brown eyes, dark, wavy hair, a 



6 


Tho Count de Latour. 

handsome man, who had the utmost confidence in me. . That con- 
fidence was never betrayed. Henry Craggs could be sublime at 
times, my presence fostered it; that sublimity was in a far- 
away look, a depth of gloom, a resignation, recalling to mind a 
nbus he would have been a perfect living 
picture of one. 

I was as fair as he was dark. It is 
said that extremes meet in harmony, and I 
admit my liking for him in spite of some- 
thing “uncanny. ” I verily believed in his 
absolute and perfect innocence and that he 
was the victim of hallucination, which 
never visited me at any time; it could not 
be said that I slept the sleep of the just 
any more than Henry did. Nay! he was 
„ deserving of more comfortable rest than 1, 
'C.j-TAo...t t .,L V ou^ or j dk] thing8 with impunity, from 

which he would have shrunk. 

Craggs was careful and methodical. I was a spendthrift 
and inordinately proud. He was large and athletic. I was 
thin and effeminate. He was of sanguine temperament. I was of 
mental motive. In thus knowing ourselves we discovered defi- 
ciencies and found out that Henry’s development was not in 
the line of art, and really I could not discover why he went to 
the school at all. I conjectured everything, puzzling my brain 
to no purpose, until the quiet similitude of a heavenly atmos- 
phere answered that question for me in the end. 

“ Shade of Napoleon ! ” 

Such was an involuntary exclamation of Craggs one after- 
noon, as we were copying from the flat. 

“Your thoughts seem to be with the first empire,” I said, 
looking at him wonderingly. 

“Yes, indeed,” he answered, as though broken in a reverie 
and looking up a little scared. “The result of my usual un- 
happy dreams, I wish I could find the cause, they make me into 
a mere automaton.” 

•‘Try fasting, or light eating and plenty of hard work,” I 
suggested, not knowing what else to advise. 

“My friend,” said he, solemnly, “what you advise is 
proper treatment. I have tried it often; it fails on a soul like 



The Count de Latour. 


7 


mine, and listen! your bright, hopeful spirit is balm to me. I 
learn so much from you; others talk about art, you work and 
feel it. If I could only get rid of dreams I could paint better, 
* I am sure. ” 

“No doubt, Craggs, no doubt,” I said, “men at our age 
don’t know where we are, or where to find a soothing, healing 
balm, but I hope your mind will be directed to a certain young 
lady visitor very soon, if my judgment is not at fault.” 

“Such a thing is far from me,” he answered. “I never in- 
tend to be smitten with love, as long as I try to love my art. In 
all London I have never seen a lady I could really love. I 
speak as I feel when I tell you there is a misanthropic hatred 
gnawing at my heartstrings, and I have a horror of the opposite 
sex; I was born in the atmosphere of forestry and ruins and feel 
like a wild man of the woods.” 

“You are anything but a monster, my boy,” I said. “You 
speak like a dwarf of the middle ages, whose ugliness breeds 
horror and contempt, not as a smart young Londoner with all 
the world before him, and one, too, who draws flattering com- 
ments from our bevy of lady 
critics, who -crowd around our 
easels.” 

I state here that I had ob- 
served a tail young lady, with 
sloe-black eyes sparkling like 
diamonds, graceful in figure, 
perfect in deportment, easy in 
pose, aquiline, nose, and hair “The Atmosph^e °f F °re S try andRuins.- 
slightly curled, come to us more often than usual. Be it un- 
derstood that visitors are free to come and go as they please, 
but when a lovely face comes often, silently gazing at our 
work, that face is apt to cause comment. 

It was so in this case and I caught myself admiring this 
stranger, but her eyes were fixed on Craggs with a strange fas- 
cination; he, poor fellow, was oblivious, and I never — feeling 
slightly jealous — once mentioned the fact to him. There she 
came. There she gazed until I thought of a sphinx, and won- 
dered if Craggs’ lump of clay would be affected by such a pen- 
etrating and persistent stare. 

I vainly flattered myself into the belief that she would 



8 


The Count de Latour. 


turn her attention to me, and to my own smiling bow she be- 
stowed on me an unfeeling look; a cold, stolid look, which made 
me wonder whether she had a heart and if that heart would 
melt the adamantine one of Henry Craggs. She certainly was 
beautiful and carried an air of nobility with her. 

a melancholy 



The Abacus. 


But why such 
mood? Was 
she a kindred spirit? Was 
there affinity to be awakened 
between them? 

My heart beat fast as she 
came behind us, yet her influ- 
ence depressed me, and love, 
that love which I felt for her, 
clasped my very soul. I was 
agitated and nervous, made so by this silent goddess. 

My friend noticed and felt nothing, he labored away at his 
design, working with a determination to ac- 
complish the end, a complete obliteration 
of his weird dreams, by means of study. 

The fair inamorata came and departed 
as usual, and I was mustering courage to 
swerve from the usual rules of etiquette 
by speaking first the next time she came; 
but an agreeable surprise forestalled me. 

A liveried servant— a footman — wear- 
ing silver-crested buttons and a cockade 
on his hat, presented an envelope to each 
of us, after asking our respective names, 
and politely withdrew. 

. The contents were as follows: 

3 Upper Bedford Place, 

Russell Square, London, W. 

The Count and Countess de Latour anticipate much pleasure in de- 
siring the presence of Mr. Noel Payton, Monday evening, Sept. 17, at 8 
o’clock. Reception in honor of His Highness, Chandra Gupta, a Royal 
Prince of India. 




Chapter II. The Abacus and the Prince. 

HE carriages that evening were out bright 
and early ; everybody considered it an 
honor to attend the circle of which the 
De Latours were the acknowledged lead- 
ers. The Count was the scion of a noble 
house of French courtiers, whose right 
hands were never backward in wielding 
a sword in defence of their beloved France. 
The fields of Cressyand Poictiers down to 
those of Austerlitz and Friedland, imbibed 
the blood of the heroic De Latours. The 
countess was born and educated at Con- 
stantin, in Algeria, after its accession to France by Louis Na- 
poleon III. Her parents were Algerians, or to be more ex- 
plicit, her father was a Moor, and her mother an Arab. Consent 
was freely given to the marriage by De Latour’s parents, and 
it was approved of by the emperor himself — no wonder ; the 
smart young officer in command of the garrison there, was to 
wed one of the most accomplished and ladylike women ever 
conquered by love, whose lineage was anything but obscure ; 
her ancestors were leading lights in the Mohammedan world at 
Tripoli and Mecca. 

The gay throng in the drawing room was representative, 
and there was certainly a touch of orientalism in the furnishing. 
Many whose dark hair and swarthy complexion left no room 
for doubt about their being of Asiatic origin. 

My name being called aloud by the resonant voice of the 
butler on entering, the host and hostess came forward. 

“ We are pleased, indeed, to have you with us,” said the 
Count. 

u Yet we are sorry to bring you from your studies,” added 
the Countess in a charming manner. 4 4 But let us compensate 
by introducing our daughter Julie to you.” 



10 


The Count de Latour. 

“It is very kind and gracious of you, ” I answered, feeling 
a little abashed. “But I fear fny Visual reticence will prevent 
me appreciating it to the extent it deserves.” 

Just at that moment, our lady visitor of the studio came 
bouncing up, much to my surprise. This was Julie, the only 
child of the De Latours, who upon being formally introduced, 
cast upon me the same cold gaze. She was the essence of 
politeness. Her pretty figure played havoc with my emotions, 
as she skipped around, chatting quite lively tb every body. 

There was something in me that repelled her. I have been 
struck with wonder quite often, at the knowledge that other 
charming ladies were affable towards me ; yes, they surrounded 
me often, were drawn to, instead of being repelled from my 
presence. But this little minx of a girl, Julie de Latour, was 
a decided antipodes, far away from me. 



City of Constantin, Algeria The Marine View in possession of the Count. 


As I was sitting there, wrapt in contemplation. I chanced 
to look up and saw Henry Craggs and Julie together. 

I am in duty bound to record all — everything having a 
direct bearing to the sequel of this history. I say, with shame, 
that I felt a pang of jealousy toward my good, kind friend, as I 
w atched him with my green eye. What right had I to do so ? 
Where was my proud manhood ? I could have cried bitter tears 
a moment later, as my better spirit prevailed. I strived to take 
those horrid tentacles from my heart, it was like a monster 
kraken drawing a boat into the depths, it came again and did a 
little clutching ever and anon. 

From the woebegone feeling of dry ashes, there leapt into 
my being a veritable phoenix of joy, when I saw Henry Craggs 
turn to Julie with a look of something like scorn ; he cast upon 
her the same cold stare she had used for me. 


The Count de Latour. 


11 


Surely it cannot be a proper kind of human nature in 
which I was indulging. It must be a perverted sense handed 
down by some barbarous ancestor; I was a mere child, crying 
for what I could not have. At times I felt ready to annihilate 
my poor friend. I felt like a Romeo, an executioner, and a 
vandal rolled into one. 

Be it said in this my testimony, that I am ready to suffer 
the rebound of just retribution, by the censure of heaven and 
the angels, whose laws are inviolable and inscrutible, if those 
words I am about to utter brought me not into disgraceful, 
crushing defeat ; they rebounded to my very soul. 

I say that I fostered the idea of winning Julie 'at , any cost, 
entertaining hopes of bringing her to a knowledge of my affec- 
tion, and of course, stamping. out every rival who came in my 
way, which Graggs certainly was;-her eyes were always on him. 

I got rid of jealousy only to fill its 
place with the rage of a sanguinary war- 
rior ; transformed was I (shameful, guilty 
mortal that I was). 

My name being mentioned, I rose 
quickly, and in doing so, inadvertently 
dropped my glove, and was on the point 
of reclaiming it, when I suddenly caught 
sight of the Count de Latour coming in 
haste towards me, and taking my arm, led 
me away. 

“Allow me to introduce you, gentle- 
men,” said he, as we approached his Royal 
Highness, the Prince of India. 

“With pleasure,” I answered. 

“This is Mr. Noel Payton,” said the Count, turning to the 
Prince. “The gentleman you wished to see.” 

“And this,” turning to me, “is his Royal Highness, Chan- 
dra Gupta, Prince of India.” 

“Your face is familiar, sir,” said the Prince to me, “and 
I know you from a drawing the Count has in his possession.” 

“Indeed ! ” I exclaimed, “the knowledge feels reciprocal, 
but of course, this is the first time I have seen you. You place 
me at a disadvantage when you judge me from a small marine 
view in water color. However, you are very kind to mention it.” 



12 


The Count de Latour. 


The Prince was a man of about fifty years, very strong and tall, 
heavy black moustache and eyebrows, eyes brown with dreamy, 
thoughtful expression, andihigh forehead. He wore a silken tunic 
with sash, carried in his hand a scarlet cap, ornamented with gold 
lace and a huge tassel, his hair was smooth, and his conduct 
was like one who had moved in the best society all his life. 

u Are you not aware,” continued the Prince, “that a per- 
son’s identity remains ever the same, his sign manual and his 
ipse dixit are always unique ? ” 

“I fail to understand your meaning,” I answered. “Pray 
explain, for there is no signature on the drawing.” 

44 Ah ! we apprehend those things,” he said, smiling. 44 It 
is his deeds which are everlasting, words only are of use in a 
world like ours, but I will only say that I saw in the picture, 
character ; in the delicate tints, feeling ; in the composition, 
truth ; in the harmony, poetry. It is upon 
a psychological basis I make my deduction, 
and cannot gravitate to good plain Eng- 
lish — 3 ^our tongue is not a mystic or a soul 
language.” 

4 1 You are versed in the mysteries of 
Hindoo mythology,” I said, 4 4 and we 
Christians repudiate all such claims.” 

“That is so, ” said the Prince thought- 
fully, looking on the floor. 

Then as with a sudden thought or rec- 
ollection, he commenced talking upon a 
different subject entirely. 

44 Have you heard of a Spanish Blue- 
beard ? ” he asked abruptly. 

44 1 suppose 1 have,” I answered, looking at him in aston- 
ishment. 

44 Yes, but I refer to the Palace of the Alhambra, in which 
the Moorish kings lived.” 

44 Did the story of Bluebeard originate there ? ” I asked. 

“That, of course, is a myth,” he answered, and continued, 
“since seeing you I may deliver what appears to me an import- 
ant message. You know that my labors are at Mount Everest, 
in Thibet, and that occult science has opened a partial way in 
knowing ourselves.” 




The Count de Latour . 


13 


“I had presumed you were educated that way, ” I answered. 

“ My story will be told when my mission is ended,” said 
he, continuing, “in the bowels of Everest — the highest moun- 
tain in the world — are many caves, grottos, and volcanic fis- 
sures. In one cave I fortunately discovered an ancient abacus, 
with movable pieces made of ivory, very yellow with age, upon 
it was a date proving its antiquity beyond the ascent of Vishnu. 
Tartaric characters are graved on the rim, and it must be 
older than the Chinese empire, perhaps seven thousand years. 
The word “clef ” is discernable in the translation. A peculiar 
formation, similar to a cross is what struck me as being strange. 
Upon showing this to the council of Adepts in the Buddhistic 
Temple, a certain brother (of whom newspapers spake descrip- 



Chandra Gupta, Prince of India. Madame the Countess de Latour. 

tively) buried himself alive, and rising again after five hours’ 
entombment, made the translation. ” 

“We all read of this circumstance,” I said, interrupting 
him, “and we consider such proceedings revolting and hurt- 
ful in the extreme. I pray your highness may change the sub- 
ject and not speak again of the poor man in his grave, as I sup- 
pose he is there yet, as the newspapers reported.” 

“That is so, he died at his second burial, his theosophy — 
God wisdom — was weak, ” continued the Prince. “But allow 
me, in conclusion, to say that we found a linen manuscript in 
his coffin, which I know you will be interested in, and now I am 
ready to change the subject, and talk on more congenial mat- 
ters. ” 


14 


The Count de Latour. 


“I am not anxious,” I said calmly, “for I am in no way, 
nor was I in any instance, connected with esoteric Buddhism, 
therefore your royal Highness must be mistaken as to my inter- 
est in the affair. ” 

“My duty is over, our interview is ended,” said he, smil- 
ing. “The improbable might also be the possible.” 

With that he turned away, addressing himself to other 
guests. 



NINEVEH 




Chapter III. The Linen and the Glove. 

HANDRA GUPTA, Prince of India, struck 
a vein of thought within my mind, making 
me pass a restless night, wondering in 
what way I could be connected with the 
suicidal fanatic in far-away Thibet. Even 
my appetite was affected, as I quietly 
breakfasted late at my rooms in St. James 
street. 

Two faces had haunted me alternately, 
and their faint impressions were yet pic- 
tured upon my brain, the features of Julie and the Prince. 

I tried to soliliquize upon something quite opposite to these 
phantom faces. I pictured to myself wonderful America, its 
packing houses, which sent the rasher of bacon that was on my 
plate. The cereals in the form of crushed oats and maize. I 
wondered how the men felt who slew so many thousand hogs 
daily, and what a blessing it was to have so many men em- 
ployed, in order to provide for such weak fellows as me. No 
wonder we love America, it keeps this throbbing metropolis 
alive. 

My reverie was interrupted. At that moment the Countess 
de Latour’s footman stepped in. He handed me a small par- 
cel, saying it was from his mistress; he quickly retired. 

I have heard many people say they were not surprised at 
anything now-a-Jays. I must confess the contents of that par- 
cel astonished me, at least a part of it, and that part was some- 
thing placed inside the white kid glove which 1 had let fall the 
previous evening, so thoughtfully returned at this moment. 

It was wrapped in tissue paper, this thing, nothing but an 
old yellow linen rag, upon which I discovered some writing in 
the Coptic, Zend, or ancient Egyptian language. I could not 
help connecting this with the Prince and thought it strange he 
would send what he, no doubt, thought valuable, inside my 



16 


The Count de Latour. 


glove. To me this rag was a rag, and of no value; the writing^ 
of course, being of little import. As to me being a relative of 
the dead fanatic, that was all nonsense. The man would have 
taken a different means to acquaint me of the fact, and not 
buried his rag-letter with him. I dismissed the subject as 
sheer nonsense and unworthy of my attention. 

After our studies were over for the day, Henry Craggs and 
myself were enjoying a quiet game of chess at my rooms. He 
seemed to have considered the reception of the previous evening 
somewhat of a bore, and uninteresting ; w hen 
1 told him how admirable and good Julie 
was, he ventured only to say, “ poor girl.” 

I regarded him closely in order to read 
his thoughts, when he nonchalantly gazed 
about my apartment, and quite suddenly 
his eyes dilated, his energy became aroused 
as though he saw something of a frightful 
nature. I looked around also, expecting 
to see, at least, the cat on the mantel-piece, 
but there was nothing unusual, yet I felt a 
creeping sensation all over me, for I was 
sure Craggs saw something, enough, at 
any rate, to make him more lively. 

“That glove! What is in that glove?” he demanded, rising 
quickly to his feet. 

“Only a piece of old linen the Prince sent me,” I answered 
carelessly. 

“Would you allow me to see it?” he eagerly inquired. 

“Certainly, if you wish, I answered. “There are Coptic 
letters or hieroglyphics printed upon it; look at it, then throw 
it into the fire. Why! you nearly scared me, I thought it was 
something alive you saw. ” 

“What! Is that the way you treat the Prince’s gift?” he 
exclaimed, taking his seat again. “I tell you there is a mystery 
here; let me take it to Oxford and have it translated, I am going 
there soon. ” 

“Of course, do so,” I answered, “It is curious, but I think 
it is also valueless. ” 

Whereupon Craggs took his leave, carrying the piece of 
linen with him. 



“ Wonderful America.” 


The Count de Latour. 


IT 


Onty to usher in another visitor, however, no less a person- 
age than the Prince himself at that late hour. He was dressed 
in European costume, leaving his native habiliments behind; he 
took the identical chair Craggs had just vacated. 



“Bury the Crescent and Raise the Cross.” 

“You received my little present today?” he said, peering at 
me with his dark, penetrating eyes. 

“Yes, your Highness,” I answered, trembling at my abuse 

of it. 

“I suppose you will translate it,” he remarked. 




18 


The Count de Latour. 


“Yes, I have sent it to Oxford,” I answered, giving him a 
polite fiction. 

“Sent it!” he reiterated, “and by what means?” 

“My friend Craggs has taken it personally,” I answered. 
“It is quite safe, your Highness.” 

“Since that is so,” he remarked calmly, and continued, “I 
have come to give you your lesson; I believe that script or linen is 
charmed, and I may say at once without hesitation, that I came 
to London expressly to see you, for there 
are unknown mysteries to be solved; you 
are a co-laborer with us. Fate has de- 
creed.” 

“Whence do you get your informa- 
tion?” I asked timidly. 

“From various parts of the world,” 
he answered, “are gathered the virtues 
of life, where they are but too sparely 
sown; the answer envelops the earth. To 
you this is vague at present, but let me 
continue.” 

“Certainly, Prince, if you feel it your 
duty to do so.” 

“There is a saying in Persia, ” continued he, “ ‘Bury the 
axe and raise the crescent,’ but Christendom has cried, ‘Bury 
the crescent and raise the cross,’ and it is that cross which con- 
fronts us, its origin is untraceable, but its meaning unmistake- 
able. I have had forged in brass this small cross (laying a curi- 
ous object upon the table, resembling a cross about three inches 
long), it is an exact copy of the one represented on the rim of 
the abacus.” 

Here he looked at me with a penetrating gaze, continuing: 
“You must take it to the palace of the Alhambra, enter the 
hall of Ease, pass through the court of lions, descend the gran- 
ite staircase, which will bring you to the garden of Generalife; 
in the center you will observe the temple of the Koran, the roof 
of which is covered with kiosque, cupola and minaret; enter 
with feet unshod and head uncovered, take this key or cross, 
place it transversely into the lock of an iron chest under the 
eastern tripod, open, and here I end.” 

I leaned back in my chair trembling; I felt a heavy hand 



Court of Lions. 



The Count de Latour. 


19 


upon me, urging me to do his bidding. I had scarcely voice 
enough to speak; he supplied answers readily to dumb ques- 
tions. 

k ‘Messrs. Baring Brothers,” continued he, never noticing 
my prostrate condition, “have in my name, unlimited means at 
their disposal for your use. I have instructed them to give you 
the necessary passport and letter of credit.” 

A cold perspiration came over me. 1 felt weak under this 
powerful man; a mere puppet, a plaything, inanimate and use- 
less. 

“You cannot fail,” continued the Prince, with marked as- 
surance. “The way is clear and the sky is bright.” Shaking 

me cordially by the hand in de- 
parting, he left a load upon me 
which was slow in wearing olf . 

It being past midnight (the 
hour of grim phantom shadow), 
I retired, thinking the Prince 
was at once peremptory and 
commanding, too much so for 
“Past Midnight.’ me. Yet he was kind, consider- 

ate, and meant well. He had never asked whether I was at lib- 
erty, or would like to undertake such amission; it was a strange 
task, more than strange, it was precarious and even dangerous; 
he took for granted that I would go. 

I carefully examined this brass device. It was no key at 
all, but two slabs, narrow at one end and broad at the other, 
joined together by a rivet. Nothing could have been more sim- 
ple; but this piece of brass was likely to break the even tenor of 
my way, and make that tumultuous enough to break every kind 
of monotony. 

I was going into one of the finest Moorish palaces, carte 
blanche , to take away something, without let or hindrance, by 
the authority of brass, backed up by the gold of Baring Broth- 
ers, the bankers. 

The fine features of the Prince were impressed upon me, 
as I lay on my pillow. Through those features came, in lovely 
form, the ever existing face of Julie. The frightened, timid 
feeling which I felt could not be repressed, nor could it obscure 
that sweet face from my vision. 



20 


The Count de Latour. 


Love was rapping at my heart, I thought it a permanent 
joy, that dear girl should know it soon. Such were my mus 
ings when I fell into a deep slumber. 




Chapter iv. The Palace and the Writing. 

HE sun shone through a London fog on 
that September morning, the atmosphere 
of my rooms was clear in contrast to my 
own mind, which was slightly muddled ; 
my cranium, about the vicinity of the 
region of thought, was aching. I fancied 
something within me was changing. A 
strange development was taking place; 
natural or abnormal, I felt it creeping on, 
it was a “stern, tyrannic thought, that 
made all other thought its slave.” Urg- 
ing me on to a doubtful duty. 

After obtaining the necessary letter from Baring Brothers, 
I found myself packing certain articles within my dressing bag 
for the journey to Spain, and I could not be at the studio that 
day. During the afternoon I had a visit from Henry Craggs. 

“I did not go to Oxford,” he said, “but I luckily met the 
Greek Professor of Baliol College in Piccadilly Circus, who 
succeeded in deciphering the characters on this piece of linen.” 

“That was a fortunate rencontre,” I said somewhat joy- 
fully, for I now wanted to know something about the linen, but 
did not wish Craggs to know my change of mood in regard to it. 

“Yes; and I have brought the translation,” he continued, 
“ as you did not appear this morning, I came with it.” 

I took the paper which he handed me and read the following : 

“A chain, a never ending chain — each link a life — each life a spirit 
— each spirit a revolving entity. Unknown to death. The mark of Cain 
on the brow of an ancient wicked one. Crime to be reversed and 
avenged. A fearful clinging to a woman’s female offspring. Like be- 
gets like. The Horror is on her children’s children. Crimson mark of 
dire calamity. Lineal heritage ineffaceable by blood. Heralded by a 
Cross, to wipe away the guilty stain, by a right hand of feeling, whose 
gauntlet is the gage to challenge evil. Pure and white as the lotus 
flower. Lift it from suffering souls, ease the pain of a forgotten crime, 
a blasting omni — present incubus.” 



22 


The Count de Latour. 


“ That is the correct translation,” said Craggs, “the Pro- 
fessor was quite overcome by it, he declared the caligraphy to be 
older than Sanscrit, adding that the words conveyed fearful 
import.” 

“ I am completely lost, Craggs, over this affair, I cannot 
make out its meaning.” 

As I was speaking I saw him turn pale — he too, was afraid. 
Had observers seen us at that moment, they would have con- 
cluded that we were conspirators betraying guilty consciences, 
in comparison to which Guy Fawke’s escapade, and the Cato 
street conspiracy were mere child’s play. 

“There is without doubt, a deep mystery behind this,” he 
said, “perhaps we ought to give it to the police in Scotland 
Yard. The Prince of India might be an evil man ; who knows 
what he is up to ? He may have the murderous propensities of 
his old countryman, Nana Sahib, and may be in London on a 
mission of revenge.” 

“ It does look like it,” I acquiesed. “but 
how strangely he goes to work, a new method 
to put us off our guard, I suppose.” 

“As he has sent this to you, ” said Craggs, 

“I would advise further inquiry, to know if 
he is perfectly aufaitT 

Poor Craggs was solicitous for my wel- v*e Gladstone 
fare, and he felt troubled. I knew he esteemed me highly, and 
would not allow a hair of my head to be hurt, he resented the 
overtures of the Prince. 

I thought fit not to speak of my intended journey at the 
command of the Prince. To my cruel jealousy I added this 
secret. There was I, burdened with selfishness and jealousy, a 
happy combination, making a candidate for Hades, enough to 
drag me there. I did great wrong to this innocent man. 

Yet, there was truth behind all this, I felt my tongue 
silenced by some power or will beyond my control. Involun- 
tarily I was in the clutches of an environment, my actions were 
abnormal and foo'.Lh beyond measure. By the sane mind, I 
would have been considered-erratic ; very properly so ; there was 
I, going off on a trip, the end of which I knew nothing. What 
is worse, I consulted no one, fearing to relate, what appeared 
to me in my rational moments, a foolhardy and crazy action. 


The Count de Latour. 


23 


Before going, I took the precaution to inquire at the Foreign 
Office, as to the standing of the Prince ; and to make sure of my 
position, I wended my way to Downing Street, where Mr. 
Gladstone presided over the Privy Council, and found that gen- 
tleman fully able to support what information I had obtained. 

He was cognizant of the fact, that Chandra Gupta, Prince 
of India, came to London, armed with the authority and good- 
will of Lord Northbrook, the Governor General. The letter of 
introduction contained high eulogiums of the Prince, as being 
advanced in the circles of aesthetic culture, hereditary priest of 
the Temple of Buddha, a scholar and a gentleman. 

I took the ship for Lisbon at Victoria Docks, having an eye 
to comfort and a pleasant time, being fond of the sea. 

I arrived in Granada. The royal Moorish palace stood as 
a fairy tale before me, picturesque and beautiful, cutting with 
sharp lines the glowing red of the setting 
sun. The deep shadows of the rocky hill 
upon which it stood were purple, each 
rocky declivity a deep brown. There was 
a transparency about it which no painter 
ever reproduced. The interior w r as formed 
of groined arches, gold, green and blue 
tiling, forming wondrous mosaics. Cunei- 
forms circling into various devices. Too 
colossal and grand to describe in detail, 
was that royal palace of the Alhambra. 

The seneschal at the gate was a Span- 
4i i took the Ship for Lisbon.” iard, who scrutinized the permit I had 
obtained from our consul at Lisbon, countersigned by the chief 
magistrate of that port. 

Permission was given me to enter, and I stood upon ground 
which had held the feet of actors in the world’s drama. The 
failings of men had been displayed there, victims of anger, suf- 
fering the keen edge of despair under the murderous scimiter, 
the anlace or the curtle-ax, relentless in their deadly mission 
even to the threshold of woman’s private sanctum. 

I soon found the staircase mentioned by the Prince, and 
was quickly in the garden. Fountains playing their scented 
waters, birds of gay plumage singing joyfully, exotic plants in 
profusion; magnificent, stately trees rising like giants in the 



24 


The Count de Latour. 


garden. Statuary from Greece by the hands of Phidias and his 
school of sculpture ; enchanting and thrilling were the sensa- 
tions produced. 

In this state of ecstacy I passed along the terrace and gazed 
upon the wonderful temple of the Koran. The murmuring 
voice of the orison which rose to heaven aforetime, was hushed. 
The devout Mussulman, whose supplications, invoking divine 
power, arising from a pure mind, was now in heaven. The 
tocsin in the minaret was broken, never to be heard again by 
the ear of the faithful. Change had wrought wonders, and the 
only holy visitor was an occasional anchorite from the neighbor- 
ing monastery, who paused in meditation before this beautiful 
relic of the past. 

I felt sure, on entering, that it had been used as a mortuary 
chapel some time long ago, for there was yet a Bible chained to 



Hall of Ease. Garden of Generalife. 

the lectern. The four tripods of incense were there, and my 
duty was to find the eastern one. There were four iron chests 
upon what I thought were stone sarcophagi which the ancients 
used to hold their mummies and coffins. The eastern sarcop- 
hagus was bright like Carera marble. No one was near, I felt 
a strange sensation which brought me to my senses, and I dis- 
covered that my shoes were still on. I was going to commit an 
act of vandalism, not to mention sacrilege, I had already done 
that by neglecting to remove my hat in the holy tomb of the 
dead. 

I retreated with alacrity, and was not long in reentering 
with bare feet. Trembling with dread, I took the brass key^ 
inserted it into the orifice, opened the lid, and I saw a roll of 
papyrus, and a roll of parchment, upon which was written, 
“With thy right hand take all.” 


The Count de Latour. 


25 




I obeyed the mandate, and took them, closed the lid again, 
quaking with fear as I drew my shoes on at the door, and 
thought, as I stood there, that another sin, a crime, was laid to 
my charge. I walked back with a heavy heart, scarcely able to 
trail one foot after another, until I got safely away from there, 
resolving in my mind to return those things at some future 
time, for I was not a robber of the dead. 

I arrived home without further inci- 
dent, and felt relieved, a contented feeling 
came over me as I thought of being near 
Julie again, and was fortifying myself to 
visit her parents at their Friday reception, 
and to drop that feel- 
ing of diffidence which 
I always felt at being 
near the beautiful ob 
ject of my affections. 

Such pleasant mus- 
Tempie of the Koran, ings were shortdived. 

A letter w r as handed me, from, as I saw at 
a glance, the Prince. It was in a blue en- 
velope with the legend “Important” un- 
derlined on the left-hand corner. It was 
firmly sealed in red wax, and I saw the 
encircled serpent of his heathen divinity The Eastern Tripod, 
impressed upon the wax, made by the massive signet seal of 
his finger ring. 



2*a 51 


Chapter V. The Living and the Dead. 

HASTILY tore open the letter and read: 
“Dover, Sept. 27th, 188 — . 
Sir: Accept my thanks, guard se- 
cretly the rolls. Prepare yourself to con- 
tinue this quest in another direction. It 
is this: Go to grave No. 28, Quarter of 
Louis the Sixteenth, Pere Lachaise ceme- 
tery, in Paris. Open the coffin, find a 
sealed package in the right hand of the 
corpse. Bring it, and fail not. I leave 
everything to your good judgment. I 
leave to-day for Italy to board a Peninsula and Oriental steam- 
ship at Brindisi, to sail for India. Yours faithfully, 

Chandra Gupta.” 

I was vexed to think this gentleman had mistaken me for a 
body-snatcher; it was very easy of him to order me to rob a 
grave, and I wondered why he did not do this work himself, 
and why I should be his willing victim. Was he testing my 
nerve? Was I the only person to do it? My curiosity was 
aroused and I was determined to see this thing through to the end. 

“The Calais-Dover train leaves to -night at ten o’clock,” said 
the French consul to me, on examining my passport. 

“I am to see the minister of the Interior, not he of the Pub- 
lic Works?” I asked, making sure about what he had advised me. 

“Yes, his name is Antonin Proust, you will find him in the 
Hotel de Ville.” 

As the train was hurrying to Dover I tried to occupy my 
mind with the surroundings, and thought of Thomas a Becket, 
with his vestment stained with blood in Canterbury Cathedral, 
and 1 felt guilty. The old pile, Rochester Cathedral, seemed to 
warn me of coming evil, and the soldiers at Chatham could hon- 
orably have thrust their bayonets into my body, for I felt my- 
self a sinner. To whatever I turned my attention in that county 
of hops, Kent, otherwise called the Isle of Thanet, it would 
always revert to the strange mission I was upon. 



The Count de Latour. 


27 


The sea, for once, had few charms for me. The white cliffs 
of England were to me a mockery. The sands and fisherfolk of 
Calais were things of the past. The beach and breakers where 
I used to disport myself seemed to sadly bid me return to the 
studio and paint their everchanging tints again in brilliant gold 
and transparent ultramarine. 

The station of the North was reached, and I was in Paris, a 
city of pleasure, and a city of pain. 

“Your demand is out of the usual 
order,” said Lord Lyons to me, as we sat 
in the library of the English Embassy in 
the Rue St. Honore. 

His Lordship was the English ambas- 
sador sent there under the administration 
of the Tory party, by the cabinet of Ben- 
jamin D ’Israeli, the premier. 

“By virtue of my credentials only, I ask your Lordship’s 
assistance,” I answered. 

“There cannot be any doubt about your doing well in com- 
ing to me,” continued his Lordship, “but, under the present 
government, I must be exceedingly careful not to incur the dis- 
pleasure of Mr. Gladstone and his colleagues, by doing any 
abortive act, and bringing the French ministry into strained 
relations with us, and our country into disrepute. ” 

“I fully comprehend the 
difficult position, and concur 
with what your Lordship says; 
yet, my endeavors have been in 
the safe direction, and my inter- 
view with Mr. Gladstone, who 
vouches for the high standing of 
the principle party concerned.” 

“You may take this letter to 
the minister of the Interior, ’ ’ said he, handing it to me, ‘ *it con- 
tains my support and full responsibility if anything goes wrong. 
I have every confidence in you, knowing that nothing will be 
unduly desecrated in the cemetery, as you are aware the French 
people are peculiarly sensitive over their dead. 

“Your Lordship’s confidence is not misplaced; I shall re- 
port the outcome of this mysterious affair.” 





28 


The Count de Latour. 



“Claude Lorraine’s Paintings were 
bcenic.’’ 


In waiting for the French minister, I wandered into the 
galleries of the Louvre near by, to admire the work of my 
favorite landscapist, Gasper Poussin, whose pictures are so true 
to nature, and I regretted that our English artist, Turner, was 
artificial at times. Claude Lorraine’s paintings were scenic 
and I discovered that Turner endeavored to eclipse him. As 
Mr. Ruskin says he did, controversy on that score is ended. 
I am minute in my criticism and say that those two great land- 
scape painters had one and the 
same individuality, beyond that 
I venture nothing, as there is 
room for speculation. 

“I always knew the Eng- 
lish were great searchers and 
antiquarians, ” remarked the 
minister, Antonin Proust, to 
me at our interview. 

“They are,” I answered, 
“but the gentleman at whose instigation this search is being 
made, is a native Prince of India. ” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed the minister, “yet he is a subject of 
the English Queen all the same, and may have been imbued 
with their craze for the curious; however, I will send you to the 
sacriston. ” 

Pere Lachaise cemetery found me within its portal soon 
afterwards, poring over the old tomes or records containing 
names of the dead. The sexton 
brought them to me, on com- 
mand of higher authority, and 
we soon found what we wanted 
— No. 28, Louis the Sixteenth 
precinct. 

Below this number was the 

fatal red line of the guillotine. a Turner Landscape. 

No. 28 had suffered death during the period of the Revolution. 

I sank back exhausted; the sexton became pale, though he 
was used to death. I could not touch that Book of the Dead, 
I felt a loathing towards the horrible knife. I faintly asked 
him the name of the poor victim whose grave I was to open. 

“Name ! Name!” he exclaimed, looking at me with surprise. 



The Count de Latour. 


29 


<k Yes,” I repeated humbly, “please tell me the name of the 
poor soul. ” 

u He is nameless,” quietly answered the sexton. “Those 
who suffered thus, were never recorded.” 

“Notwithstanding that,” said I, making an effort to com- 
pose myself, U I must accomplish what I came for.” 

“You would never have had permission, sir,” said the sex- 
ton, “if the name had been written there. The president him- 
self could not give it, and the Archbishop of Paris, M. Guibert, 
supports and coincides with the order of Cardinal Richelieu, made 
long ago, that a nameless grave should never receive the consecra- 
tion of the holy water, the blessing or the vatiacum, as they were 
buried like dogs in public property, belonging to no church.” 

We went to the tombs, the place of sepulchre of so many 
unfortunates. The sexton loosened the 
brick work with his implements, and we 
went down the dusty steps. The light en- 
tered obliquely from above, disclosing 
coffin upon coffin, reaching to the vaulted 
arch above. No. 28 was there, it was seen 
in the dim light. 

“Stay here a moment, sir,” said the 
sexton, “until I bring a ladder.” 

Away he went, leaving me alone in 
that awful, still place. To say that I was 
afraid would be mild language, I imagined 
the occupants rising headless from their 
•Took them one by one.” coffins, for the cruel guillotine had done 
its grewsome work well. 

I had not long to wait; he came with his ladder, placing it 
in position, went to the top of the pile of coffins, took them one 
by one, slid them down the ladder, while I laid them aside. 

No. 28 was placed on the floor of the vault, he pried the lid 
open with a chisel and disclosed the remains of a female. 

My heart leapt and throbbed when I saw it; I shrank with 
great repugnance from committing this robbery; but, gaining 
strength and mustering courage, grasped convulsively the right 
hand for the package. It was tightly clasped by the bony 
fingers which I could scarcely open. I got the sealed parch- 
ment, —with my right hand I took it — . 



30 


The Count de Latour. 


At that moment, the severed head of the lady turned on its 
side, divided as it was from the trunk. 

Before placing the package in my pocket I glanced at it and 
read an inscription. I fainted; the sexton’s arms held me, a 
cloud came before my eyes. 

On the paper I read clearly the name: “ Julie de Latour.” 



JV^I N fSVER. 

OF THE In^ERJO^ 


r 



Chapter VI. The Gamester and the Crime. 



FOUND myself in my hotel (the Conti- 
nental), convalescent, after having had an 
attack of fever. The sexton had been kind 
to me. I received cards from Lord Lyons 
and Antonin Proust, inquiring after my 
health. There were also telegrams from 
my friends in London. 

The Paris papers had the report of my 
sickness with sensational items, copied by 
the home papers. I had a kind note of 
inquiry from the Count and Countess de 
Latour, with an invitation to visit them 
when I was well again. (Little did they know what I had done 
to the body of their ancestress.) 

Henry Craggs waited on me, he would allow no one to come 
near, he made an excellent nurse. 

When able to travel again, we found ourselves once more in 
London, not much the worse for my escapade, and were fre- 
quent visitors at the home of the de Latours, — about the sealed 
package I said nothing, and the sexton was silenced by gold. 

The Count de Latour had changed somewhat; I felt this 
change was occasioned by the last visit of the Prince of India. 
He was morose, and looked appealingly at me, and suspiciously 
at Craggs. 

I saw that he was trying to bring me into his daughter’s 
society, but she behaved like a little stupid, keeping me at bay, 
giving me no chance to speak to her. 

‘‘Miss Julie,” I said to her one day, “pray tell me how I 
can bring cheerfulness again to your father, he seems to be so 
crestfallen.” • 

“I am afraid you are not strong enough, ” she replied. “It 
would take much strength, and superhuman effort to do so.” 

“I sincerely hope,” I said, “the Count will be himself again, 
without the aid of any exorcism or superstitious interference.” 



32 


The Count de Latour. 


“I fully believe Mr. Craggs has the power.” 

“Do you think so?” I exclaimed; “well, for your sake I 
hope so. ” 

“I cannot get him to try,” she observed. “Since his 
mother’s death he has been quite upset, and his father has gone 
to the East. ” 

“I know he is quite alone.” 

“My dear father suffers mentally.” 

“Can I speak to Craggs? Perhaps he will do so at my 
request,” I suggested. 

“Please do, ” she replied eagerly, “you will never regret 
doing this act of kindness.” 

Julie de Latour turned to the piano, and in touching that 
instrument appeared to me perfectly apotheosised and crowned 
in a halo of glory. She was the goddess of music, the center of 
a picture exultant and magnificent in contour. All my senses 
were in wrapt attention as she sang her favorite piece. I was 
spellbound by the enchantress who sang: 

THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE. 

Around the globe it reigns supreme, 

Wherever men abide; 

It is the maiden’s sweetest dream, 

The soldier’s precious pride. 

It is the hope, the joy, the fear, 

Of life where’er we rove, 

And from the cradle to the bier, 

We live for love, — for love. 

The savage in his breast does feel 
The sunshine of its smiles. 

Its subtle threads around him steal: 

Its influence beguiles 
The wild and stormy life he leads, 

In some fair sylvan grove; 

Where he forgets his savage deeds, 

To dream of love, — of love. 

Mariners who are tempest tossed, 

And toilers of the sea, 

When all but hope alone is lost, 

To thoughts of love they flee, 

And cast their anchor on those dreams, 

That long ago they wove 
In flowery meads, by pearly streams; 

And sigh for love, — for love. 


The Count de Latour . 


33 


On the lone captive in his cell, 

With brightening hope it shines: 

The whispering past he knows so well, 

Around his heart entwines 

Those boyhood days of long ago s 
Recorded up above; 

And memory’s tide o’er him does flow, 

On dreams of love, — of love. 

Oh, love divine, the joy we feel, 

Is felt by nature too; 

The lark’s loud merry morning peal, 

Floats from a sky of blue. 

The rippling stream o’er stony ways, 

Sounds like the cooing dove, 

That sings in ceaseless roundelays, 

The influence of love. 

Henry Craggs had acted in a moody way of late. I did 
everything I could think of to cheer him, helping him in the 
studio every day. 

“Do you still dream?” I thoughtlessly asked him one day. 

“Worse than ever,” he replied, with tears in his eyes. 

“Iam afraid your disease is contagious, the Count is ill 
with something akin to it.” 

“It is not catching,” he said, “it is hereditary.” 

“That must be so, for Julie has a touch of it.” 

“Yes, it is in some families, with me it is a disease which 
cannot be eradicated and is detrimental to my well-being.” 

“Julie has confidence in you,” I observed, “and she thinks 
you could help her father; if so, I pray you to do it — relieve 
him in some way.” 

“1 am powerless at present, but the time may come when 
he will be relieved of all his trouble,” replied the semi-mysteri- 
ous Craggs. 

I now began to think he was very sorrowful, brought on 
by the death of his mother. They were much attached to each 
other, I knew, and I remembered her coming to the studio with 
him when he first appeared there. His filial love was great and 
I tried to comfort him in his affliction. 

My chambers in St. James street were invaded shortly 
afterwards by no less a distinguished personage than the Pre- 
fect of Police, from Paris. He came to London about some 
affair connected with a young girl, who had been put away in 


34 


The Count de Latour. 


Turkey. Suspicion rested upon a man of high social standing 
in London. 

“I presume you are acquainted with the Prince of India,'’ 
remarked the Prefect, during our interview. 

“That is the gentleman who sent me to Spain, and to Paris. 
I have a right to know him, for the business has been a source 
of trouble to me ever since.” 

“It is he who is trying to right this great wrong,” he 
observed. 

“I am sure you will find him a man 
of moral rectitude and integrity.” 

“It is to you he sent me,” contin- 
ued the Prefect, “through you I am to 
gain an introduction to the Count de 
Latour.” 

I took the liberty of introducing 
him into that exclusive circle. 

Julie came to me very tearfully, 
her bosom heaved with grief, and I felt 
so sorry for her that my heart was ach- 
ing to declare its love. 

“You have been mistaken in your 
kindness,” she said reproachfully, “You meant no harm I 
know.” 

“What is it? Dear Julie, pray unburden yourself, I am 
your friend.” 

“The presence of the Prefect broods no good to my father, 
who is miserable, I fear the man has troubled him,” she said, 
bursting into tears. 

“I am sure, the Count your father, need fear nothing, he is 
honored and has a good reputation; pray dry 
your tears and be calm. ” 

“I cannot believe him guilty of crime,” she 
sighed. 

“My dear Julie! you distress me. It is 
your own dear self, troubling your heart with 
mischievous forebodings. ’ ’ 

The dear girl was right, and the rumor was C l : 1 p,c,tcT 
confirmed. The news which spread rapidly on the Stock Ex- 
change and at the clubs, that the Count de Latour had abused 




The Count de Latour. 


35 



the trust placed in him as the executor of two young ladies, his 
wards, squandering their money at the gaming table. Indeed, 
there were worse rumors afloat, a crime being at the bottom of it. 

The result was the complete disappearance of the de La- 
tours. They felt keenly the disgrace, would not see any of us, 
but Julie sent the following letter: 

“Southampton, Dec. 6th, 188- 
Dear Friends: I regret having to leave you, 
and could not, without a word of gratitude. My 
parents demand my presence in their sad hour 
of trial. We depart for the Orient. I thank 
you for the many kindnesses shown us while the 
evil was hovering around. Farewell ! The 
disgrace places a wide gulf between us. Fare- 
well! My keen sense of duty places me on a level 
with my parents. Therefore, with affectionate 
regards, I am, 

Your heart-broken Friend, 

Julie de Latour.” 

Raphael’s Madonnas. “Poor girl,” fell from the lips of 

Henry Craggs. “Dear, unfortunate girl,” I repeated, recollect- 
ing that Craggs had called her “poor girl” once before. 

“I feel deeply sorry for them all,” said Craggs feel- 
ingly, “and would have done anything to have averted the catas- 
trophe. The Prefect told me all help would be useless, as the 
crime was too serious for any interference. ” 

“ Well, Craggs, we receive _ 

our medals to-morrow, and we, 
too, must be off to the continent 
to study our art. ’ ’ 

“I follow you, wherever you 
go. I have very little heart 
left for painting, but I will con- 
tinue for my departed mother’s 
sake. ” 

Something told me I would see Julie again; it was hard for 
her, and I could not be of any help to them, beyond writing to 
the Prince, asking him to assist them and bring them out of 
their embarrassing dilemma. 

We arrived, in due course, at Rome, and were soon work- 
ing in the schools of painting, studying the old masters, copy- 
ing the antique and painting from nature. 



36 


The Count de Latour. 


Raphael’s Madonnas came under our observation, and we 
mentally recognized in them a likeness of Julie; in every one 
the face of Julie was resplendent. I could not get the idea out of 
my mind, but claimed them to be real portraits of Julie de Latour. 

Our next place was Florence, and I was astonished beyond 
measure to see a painting by Raphael of a girl so much like 
Julie that I would have taken it to be her. The whole painting 
was marvelously well treated, but seemed a trifle younger than 
she. The more I saw of Raphael’s work the more I loved her. 
I was smitten badly, and vowed to seek her, wherever she was, 
ready to go to the ends of the earth for that purpose. 

At last we came to Paris, opened our studio in Boulevard 
Haussman, intending to sojourn there some length of time, and 
to pursue our quest for Julie, thinking she might be in that 
city, as her father was a Frenchman. 

Jules Grevy was president of the republic. Gambetta was 
striving for place. On the whole, Paris was tranquil, and the 
senate at Versailles heard Victor Hugo say to them, “I am here, 
do with me as you wish.” 

The school of Fine Arts was the ren- 
dezvous of students from all parts of the 
world, and we worked there most of our 
time. 

Our stars were in the ascendant, great 
luck came to us quite unexpectedly. We 
were there when the professors were choos- 
ing models for the season. We were sur- 
prised; we leapt for joy, for we saw with 
our own eyes Julie de Latour applying for 
a position as model. The professors were 
■ Posmg so Naturally. very pleased with her, and did not like us 
interfering with their duty. We certainly did interfere. 

“ Julie, we are so pleased to meet you, what are you doing 
here in this place?” 

U I am as pleased to meet you,” she answered, casting down 
her eyes, and adding sorrowfully, U I have come to this position 
you see.” 

“And your parents?” I asked, anxiously. 

“Do not question me,” she answered, as the tears gathered 
in her beautiful eyes. 



The Count de Latour. 


37 


The dear girl at that moment was the living prototype oi 
Raphael’s Madonnas; there was the half- timid glance, the round 
rosy cheeks, the tear glistening on the long eyelash, the small 
rosy mouth, the chin with small dimples dancing in bewitching 
beauty, the deep lustrous eyes with a history behind them, full 
of emotion; the small ear like a shell from the ocean, the deli- 
cate transparency of the nostrils, dilating and full, a well 
rounded neck clear as alabaster, and a heaving bosom of deli- 
cate mold. 

She was indeed a splendid figure, posing so naturally in her 
snabby black dress, which made her look all the more lovely ; I 
was dumb, the little fairy took possession of my heart. 

“We cannot allow you to become a model, Julie,” ex- 
claimed Craggs, “that would be unbecoming a lady of your 
birth and education.” 

“And we cannot allow dear little friends to go astray or to 
suffer,” I added. 

“Or to be buffeted by the vulgar world,” said Craggs. 
“The students despise their models generally.” 

“I am alone,” she said demurely, “yet I cannot accept any- 
thing from old friends. 1 am honest and mean to work.” 

“So you shall, Julie, we will engage you,” Craggs ex- 
claimed eagerly. 

“You can do our writing for us, and arrange our portfolios 
and palettes,” I added. 

“You are very kind,” she said, shyly, “but I cannot en- 
gage myself to two single gentlemen.” 

“YVell, dear girl, we will find a better means,” I said, “and 
we will have you properly chaperoned by a lady.” 

“Let us get away from this staring crowd,” whispered 
Craggs to me. 

Sure enough, there were a lot of students looking at us. I 
knew they admired the fine figure of Julie. 

We succeeded in conveying her to a private hotel in the 
Rue St. Roch, near Ruede Rivoli, and Craggs very considerately 
gave the concierge (janitor) some money to give Julie the first 
opportunity. 

“Poor girl!” soliloquized Craggs again. 

“I love her more than ever,” I exclaimed. 

“She is noble and good,” said he, “having sacrificed herself 


38 


The Count de Latour. 


for the sake of alleviating the distress of her parents by her lov- 
ing presence.” 

“I quite believe so.” 

Craggs and I felt more happy at that moment than we ever 
felt before in our lives; we were joyous and hilarious. 

On going home that night, we sang with the students in their 
midnight orgies, songs of revelry, afloat the midnight air; we 
joined them for the tirst time. We felt happy, as Julie de La- 
tour was found, and would be always near us. 

Hope placed me on so high a pedestal that I embraced 
Craggs in the ecstacy of my delight. 




Chapter VII. The Chaplet and the Rag-picker. 



HE fraternity of Parisian rag-pickers is 
composed of the unfortunate classes; waifs 
from other nations often find themselves 
there also. Theirs is the lowest trade, 
yet among them appear artists in search 
of subjects and models. 

Madame Irene Morin came before our 
view, as a rag-picker; she, like the others, 
had her history, which is now written as 
near as possible to the facts as they were 
given to me. 

It appears that her parents had lived 
in Belleville, her mother being named La Rouge before her 
marriage with Jean Felix, a man who had a very unsavory rep- 
utation, whose appearance belied his character. The cut of the 
man’s coat and the turn of the brim of his hat took the eye of 
the La Rouges. A speedy marriage was made at the oflice of 
the surrogate, and thus begins their story: — 

‘‘You are a pig!” exclaimed Madame Felix to her spouse 
one day as they left the door of the pawnshop. 

“Please don’t, I cannot bear it, this is recrimination,” he 
answered abjectedly. 

“You know that chaplet is an heirloom,” she continued 
with a tone of asperity, “it was made in Rome long ago, and 
belonged to my great grandmother.” 

“Be quiet; we will redeem it when I win again,” he said 
sternly, as he hurried along jingling the money in his pocket. 

“Shame! Jean Felix, how low you have brought me! 
and I think my grandmother would turn in her grave if she 
knew I had parted with such a fine piece of work, which she so 
highly valued, when she lived in the Rue du Temple. ” 

“I know it is fine,” he responded. “It was made by 
Giotto, the best goldsmith in Italy, and originally belonged to 



40 


The Count de Latour. 


his holiness the Pope. A mitre is on the crucifix and each bead 
forms the head of a Saint.” 

“Well, Jean Felix, if you lose your next stakes, where will 
we be?” 

“Perdition! good wife; perdition!” 

“And our dear child, oh fie! to think of you neglecting her, 
by your wayward doings on the race course.” 

This pair of unfortunates arrived at their home, in Belle- 
ville, on the fifth story of an old tenement house, to find their 
little daughter Irene in a woful plight. Like all other young- 
sters, she got to playing thoughtlessly and had spilled the con- 
tents of the decanter upon her dress. 

She was a precocious, beautiful child, about ten years of 
age — too good to be the daughter of such a besotted creature 



The Golden Chaplet. 



Mile. Irene Felix. 


as Jean Felix. The mother was very little better, just on the 
verge of respectability. One good shot would knock them over 
like two skittles. Their moral nature had become too loose to 
take proper care of a pretty, interesting child like Irene. 

They occupied three rooms in that high place, and it is a 
wonder they did not fall over the ballustrade and break their 
necks, when in a state of intoxication. Their furniture con- 
sisted of an old drawing room set, made in Batignolles, much 
battered about the legs, some of the pieces were minus that 
article, and leaned against the wall, like broken-down soldiers. 
The carpet was also wanting, and the wax which polished the 
floor in a former age left its impression here and there in the 
interstices of the wood. The wall adornments were soon in- 



The Count de Latour. 


41 


ventoried. Some old prints of race horses and jockies were 
tacked up frameless. 

In this miserable abode dwelt the Felixes, and when the 
child was not in school she acted as waiting maid on her dis- 
reputable parents. 

The precious relic of the family was never redeemed. The 
remorseless hand of the government pawnshop (monte de piete) 
snatched it, only to disappear, as at the same time went Jean 
Felix, the father, away in disgrace, leaving mother and child 
alone to fend for themselves in the world, who got from bad to 
worse, until kind neighbors pitied the little girl, after Madame 
Felix was incarcerated in the prison of La Rochette. 

Like an orphan, poor Irene was taken by the Sisters to be 
educated in the Convent. She became accomplished, fascinat- 
ing and beautiful, loved by all, having no trace apparently of 
her parents’ evil proclivities about her, of a kind and noble dis- 
position, showing special talent in the arts, skilled in drawing, 
an admirer of the good and holy. Yet against these virtues, a 
keen observer would have noticed a restlessness and a way- 
wardness which could not be checked. Was she a daughter 
of Eve? 

At the age of twenty-one she found herself free to go where 
she pleased, and she went. 

The good influence of the Sisters gradually wore off as she 
mixed in the gay world of Paris, and as usual in such cases, 
was soon galavanting about the Champs Elysees with one 
Stephen Morin, a youth about town. He was a scapegrace, 
who had passed a creditable examination at the military school 
of St. Cyr, but could not stand the routine of an army officer. 

“You told me your father went away, Irene, and you 
would not know him if you were to see him,” remarked Steph- 
en, as they sat in the Place de la Concorde. 

“He left when I was a mere girl, and my mother’s disgrace 
prevents me becoming respectable, I belong to her class, and 
the Sisters could not change the ways of society, you know.” 

“It is very hard, my dear; but then, I would not have 
known you, if you were among the upper ten (beau monde).” 

“Do not be amused at my downfall, please. Yet, it is so 
natural of me to treat contemptuously, those who think them- 
selves my superiors.” 


42 


The Count de Latour. 


“I could kick them, ” vehetnently exclaimed Stephen, in- 
voluntarily doing so by a motion of his foot. “They are canaille 
(scoundrels) to keep a beautiful and accomplished girl like you 
down in the slums, because forsooth! your mother was unfortu- 
nate enough to come under the notice of the police. ” 

“Such are the ways of the world, and I must submit. I am 
a fair sample of the old proverb, ‘What is bred in the bone 
comes out in the flesh. 

u Was it your mother who told you about that pawnshop 
affair?” 

“Yes, she always said that a golden chaplet had been sold, 
and she wrote to the Convent orders to purchase it back again, 
no matter what it cost, for it was charmed and belonged to my 
grandfather whom I never knew. ” 

The poor girl was in the clutches. 
Vice was throttling her with its corrupt- 
ing, cankerous finger. No redemption 
for the grisette in that gay city, at that 
period, in the reign of Louis Philippe, 
the quandam schoolmaster. 

The Palais-royal was then the rendez- 
vous of the rich and the gay in the after- 
noons, but in the evening the gay people 
enjoyed themselves, not always in a proper 
way, for drink sometimes in the form ol 
“Vice was Throttling Her.” absinthe, took them, lesultmg in un- 
seemly brawls. It was here where Irene and Stephen often met. 

They were duly married, taking up their abode at Asnieres. 
At first, Stephen was a successful Benedict, and in due course a 
little girl came to them. This child was the picture of her 
mother. She grew up to womanhood, ignorant of her grand- 
mother or the disgrace that had fallen on her own mother. But 
the old hereditary feeling crept upon the girl, and she eloped 
with an Englishman, bringing down on her the wrath of her 
parents, but it turned out that the Englishman was a very re- 
spectable man. 

Connubial bliss among these people was seldom lasting, and 
— like her mother — poor Irene found herself alone, her husband 
having strayed away also. 

Of a necessity, Irene Morin became a rag-picker, after 



The Count de Latour. 


48 


spending the greater part of her life in the cafe-concerts and 
dance halls of Paris. From the convent to the mudheap was a 
great leap, but she had managed to crawl there in her old age, 
forgotten by husband and daughter. 

“What are you peering around here for?” she querulously 
asked a stranger who called himself John Brooks. “Can’t you 
leave us alone?” 

“You are ill-tempered, my good woman,” he replied kindly, 
“please be calm, and I will be your friend if you answer a few 
questions.” 

“Few friends have I had, sir, in my life.” 

“Do you know your daughter’s whereabouts?” 

“No, the mignon (little girl) went off and married, and I 
have never heard of her for many years. ” 

The poor old woman rose from her rag heap, wiped away a 



In the Palais-royal. in the Place de la Concorde. 


tear with her hand, all begrimed with dust, showing she had 
some love left for her offspring. 

“I suppose you know the Count de Latour,” quietly re- 
marked Brooks. 

“Yes, I did know him once, but I will not answer anything 
about that affair, it is not now my business — but remember, the 
Count has been notified of his false position.” 

“I am aware of that, the Prefect gave me that informa- 
tion.” 

“Are you one of his bloodhounds tracking a poor woman to 
death?” 

“Not at all. Iam your friend, and will give you every- 
thing necessary for your comfort, if you only help me to dis- 
cover the child whom you stole from Madame de Latour’s 
nurse, and the chaplet of which your mother spoke to you about. ” 


44 The Count de Latour. 

Old Irene stood straight up eyeing her interlocutor keenly. 
She blushed with shame, as she stood there, and there could be 
seen traces of former beauty in her flashing eyes. She threw 
down her basket, asking: 

“Are you a detective from London?” 

“No, madame; I am a private gentleman and am investi- 
gating this for my own pleasure.” 

“If the information is of value to you,” said Irene, “I will 
tell you, providing you agree to conditions — they are, that you 
order for me five litres of Bordeaux wine every week during my 
life time.” 

“Agreed! I will go at once and do as you desire, and will 
meet you at your room shortly.” 

Old Irene was anxious enough to require time to formulate 
her ideas, so that she could get as much out of it as possible. 

“The love of gold caused me to abduct the boy in the Champs 
Elysees, replacing him with another child 
when the nurse was engaged in conversation 
with my confederate. She knew it was the 
wrong baby, for we watched her stare with 
surprise. ” 

“And the parents never knew.” 
“Assuredly not!” exclaimed Irene, smil- 
ing incredulously at Brooks, “where are the 
French parents who know their own chil- 
dren? They seldom see them, they are 
always left to the care of the nurse and gov- 
erness.” 

“The boy, where is he?” 

“He was taken to a nursery, after registration as my son, 
then he was drafted into the artillery, went to Tonquin near 
Cochin China, and I read in the Figaro that he went from there 
to Turkey and married.” 

“His name?” 

“Adolphe Morin.” 

“In order to obtain the chaplet, are you ready to act, if 
necessary ?” asked Brooks. 

“I will do anything short of murder, I want that thing, it 
is mine, mine. ” 

“Yes, but to you it would be useless, only for the money it 



“I won’t sell.” 


The Count de Latour. 


45 


would bring. However, I hold you to your promise when 
needed.” 

In the vicinity of Vaugirard there are many ancient dwell- 
ings, inhabited by the poorer classes, built in the style of Louis 
the fourteenth. In one of these rather dilapidated houses lived 
an old miser, who called himself an antiquarian. He hoarded 
up all sorts of bric-a-brac, expecting to sell them again on the 
return of the empire; he was waiting for a coup d'etat (stroke of 
policy). The republic spoiled his speculations. This man once 
had the ear of Napoleon the third, but the present republic 
never sanctioned fabulous payment for the trinkets. They were 
too practical a people, and his nicknacks were stowed away in a 
vault in his house. 

John Brooks had been visiting all the old curiosity shops in 
Paris, and had incidentally heard of this courtier of a defunct 
empire, and very soon visited him. 

“I won’t sell!” exclaimed the old miser, “until the Count 
de Chambord or Prince Napoleon sways the sceptre of France.” 

“The present republic of ‘Liberty, equality and fraternity’ 
does not suit you,” said Brooks. 

“No, my interests are at stake.” 

“Mention your price for the chaplet, and the money is 
yours,” persisted Brooks. 

“I am an amateur and lover of curiosities, and will not 
sell.” 

“Then I am to go away without making a bargain.” 

“Yes, sir; that chaplet is worth much money, finest Italian 
carving, best rolled gold, and handled by a Pope. The em- 
peror himself will buy it when he comes to the throne.” 

“It has a history, and is a family relic.” 

“Why did they let it slip through their fingers?” 

“That is not the question I am interested in; it is necessary 
that I should have it in my possession, and I am willing to pay 
an artistic value for it.” 

“Do not press me further, it is mine, and I dare not even 
show it to you, for your anxiety might get the better of your 
good judgment.” 

“You are too obdurate, the thing is of little value to you.” 

“I am glad of it,” chuckled the old courtier, “it will adorn 
the sash of the next empress.” 


46 


The Count de Latour. 


John Brooks was not annoyed, he had expected such an 
answer, and he was more determined than ever to obtain it; he 
worked as though his very life depended on finding it, he had 
backers, one was the Prefect, who dared not act himself, but 
Brooks stopped at nothing, have it he must. There was the 
proverbial John Bull in the body of John Brooks. Have it he 
would, by fair means; if not, then its acquisition must be by 
foul means. 





Chapter VIII. The Prefect and the Robber. 

/dpS&v LD IRENE the ragpicker ceased to appear on 
gj the dump hill. She had retired, such was the 

vfl[B wl JrvJ bountiful generosity of John Brooks that he 
provided for her living in ease and comfort all 
her life. This Englishman was too kind, and 
B|1 the neighbors, as usual, looked askance, and smilingly 
Bltr shook their heads. 

[|j|\ She drank less wine, but of better quality, her 
home was cared for by a charwoman (femme de menage) 
and the “Springtime” drygoods store received a generous order 
for dresses and linen. Irene then appeared to be a very re- 
spectable old lady, walking on the boulevards without attract- 
ing the vigilant eye of the police. 

All this put her in mind of her younger days, when she 
used to trip along on her high heels, charming the admiring and 
giddy youth of the city. 

“We must get it,” exclaimed Brooks. 

“How can you do so without blowing up the vault with 
dynamite?” asked Irene. 

“There are easier ways than that; you must get in some- 
how, and I will follow.” 

“I will try it, you better leave the matter to me, sir; I will 
pave the way for you.” 

“Very well, you are up to your old tricks again, are you 
not? You know how to catch the weak side of unsuspecting 
men. Ah! old mother, I am afraid you are incorrigible.” 

“Never mind how I do it, so that it is done.” 

“Then go to the old fellow, and coddle him as much as you 
wish, your reward will be great, if we succeed in getting that 
chaplet. ” 

The old courtier had a person who did his housework for 
him. She was faithful, old, and a widow. She spent her nights 
at homo with her family near by. 

Into this poor widow’s home the wily Irene forced herself, 


48 


The Count de Latour . 


and the two women became friends. The apparent wealth on 
one side and poverty on the other, smoothed things over with 
the old servant woman. 

“Yes, madarne, ” she said confidentially, “my master hoards 
his goods in a closet with an iron door.” 

“Don’t tell me that, my dear, ” said Irene, “I might be 
tempted to cock my cap at him. ” 

“He is a hard nut to crack. I have tried it myself ever 
since I knew him. ” 

“You don’t go to work the proper way.” 

“Don’t I though. I warm his slippers and put his pipe in 
good order, and wait on him as though he were a merry old 
king.” 


“Ha! ha! That is just the opposite to what you should do, 
I was sure you were a respectable woman.” 

“I hope I am, Madame Mo- 
rin.” 

“You are a silly body not to 
work him, you should dress 
younger, and not wear that long 
skirt hanging on you like a rag, 
and take that old Normandy cap 
off.” 

“He always said he liked 
sation.” plain women.” 

“Yes, you are a little too plain, the men like plain dresses, 
but don’t you know they like a great deal of padding in them?’ 

“He would turn me away if I appeared with the latest 
styles, shorter skirts and high heels.” 

“Let me try,” exclaimed Irene. 

“You are at liberty to try, my friend, I have given him 



‘Two Persons were in earnest conver- 


up.” 

“I will masquerade a little, if you please, and take your 
place some day if you pretend to be ill.” 

“Ill ! There is nothing the matter with me.” 

“Give me a chance,” exclaimed Irene, “and you will see if 
I don’t catch him; you will lose nothing by it.” 

So the servant woman appeared with bandages round her 
head, pretending to be sick. 

“What’s the matter with you?” roared her master. 


The Count de Latour. 


49 


“Oh, dear! I have toothache, headache and earache.” 

“Have you seen a doctor?” 

“No, sir, but I am going tomorrow and will send my sister 
to do the work in my absence.” 

“Very well, that will do.” 

The dwelling of the antiquarian was like a scene in a pan- 
tomime the next day. The rooster chanticleer crowed as usual 
in the yard, and a pleasant voice was heard singing gayly, a 
pair of youthful feet were heard tripping about the kitchen. 
The savory flavor of olive oil and steak caught the old man’s 
olfactory nerves, a hearty breakfast was being prepared by the 
unseen sprightly sister of his maid-of -all- work. He smiled and 
chuckled to himself upon this neat and happy change, and had 
scarcely taken off his red nightcap when 
she came, rapping at his door, saying in a 
sweet, insinuating voice: 

“Breakfast is ready, sir.” 

He hastened down stairs and took his 
accustomed seat at the table in the dining 
room, preparing a pretty speech of flat- 
tery for his young servant, but his sur- 
prise took the speech away, being too 
great a surprise for common mortal. In 
came old Irene, dressed up to date, carry- 
ing the viands and saying: 

“Good morning to you, sir.” 

“Good morning, madame,” he responded. 

“I hope your sister will soon be better, she was suffering 
very much yesterday.” 

“She went to consult a doctor today, sir, and I am pleased 
to wait on you.” 

“Sit down, and let us eat.” 

The old man was not well pleased with his new acquisition, 
he noticed her age at once; her cupidity made him less austere 
than usual — he was amused to see a woman old enough to be his 
mother, dressed like a young girl, and only attributed her the- 
atrical get-up to want of knowledge, and innocence of what was 
befitting a woman of her age. 

Irene had the opportunity she wanted, the position of the 
safe, the locks and bolts on the doors. 



50 


The Count de Latour. 


Her first act was to plug his pistol with paper wads after 
extracting the ball, then casts of keys in wax, not forgetting to 
place sleeping drugs in all the wine. If she had not succeeded 
in winning him, she was in a fair way of robbing him. Her 
rice powder did not cover the wrinkles on her face, constant 
working at the rag-heap had bent her figure, too much for the 
fastidious taste of the old courtier. 

In the dusk of that evening, two persons were in earnest 
conversation in the shadow of the trees in the Tuileries gar- 
dens. They turned away suspiciously when the gendarme 
passed them on his beat, they were new characters to him, and 
he pretended to be oblivious of their presence, taking care to 
ensconce himself behind a statue, watched their proceedings. 

The man was dressed in the blouse 
of a mechanic, and the woman in a new, 
rich silk, made up in fashionable style. 
After gesticulating and pointing to- 
wards the river, they went off together 
to the Concorde bridge. In crossing 
the square, the man accidentally, and 
very foolishly, dropped a key on the 
pavement, it glittered in the light for a 
moment as it fell, the voice of the 
woman at that time was uppermost, so 
that neither of them heard it fall; but 
the policeman was on the alert, and 
picked it up, following in their track 

toward Vaugirard. 

This pair of night-hawks succeeded in entering the house of 
the miser, so clever was it done, conclusive of their being first- 
class robbers, but they reckoned without their host. 

“That’s the door!” whispered the woman, pointing to the 
vault. 

“It seems formidable,” answered the man, John Brooks, 
for it was he. 

“Quick! the key!” exclaimed the woman Irene, for it was 

she. 

He fumbled in his pockets a long time, perspiring in the 
effort. No key was to be found. He looked at her in blank 
amazement. 



The Count de Lcitour. 


51 


“You silly man!” contemptuously exclaimed Irene. 

“The key is lost; what is to be done?” he asked. 

“Go the way we came and get another.” 

Chagrined and vexed, John Brooks retreated, cursing the 
amenities of a burglar’s life. They got out of the house quietly 
and into the boulevard, and scarcely could they breathe freely 
before they were accosted by two policemen who placed them 
under arrest for attempted burglary. The other keys were 
found upon their persons. The evidence was conclusive when 
the lost key fitted the door of the vault. 

They were brought up for private examination before the 
Judge of Instruction in the Palace of Justice — according. to the 
Justinian law in vogue in France — they 
kept strictly silent, and were placed under 
advisement until further inquiry could be 
made. 

“You have compromised me by your 
bungling,” exclaimed the Prefect of Police 
to Brooks, in his cell at the Gendarmerie 
(police station). “I must see the judge at 
once and have your release ordered, and I 
can make excuses for you by suborning the 
two policemen.” 

“Any news from the East?” abruptly “Worse than Irene.” 
asked Brooks. 

“Yes, the lost Count is heard from, and the present one is 



in the toils.” 

“And the chaplet?” asked the imperturbable Brooks. 

“Still in the vault, guarded safer than ever, but you must 
get it, and make no more blunders by coming in contact with 
my men.” 

The power of the Prefect was great, but even he could not 
release Irene Morin, for there was an old grievance, a crime, 
hanging over her, she had been released on her own recogniz- 
ances, and this daring act of robbery kept her in confinement. 

Brooks gained his freedom. He sent Irene all necessaries 
for her use and comfort, in the way of furnishing and food. 
She was not unhappy, and not being a common prisoner, she 
promenaded about the building on her parole of honor. 

Once more Brooks tried to buy the chaplet, and once more 


52 


The Count de Latour. 


he was repulsed; the old courtier was more obdurate than ever. 

Upon urgent notice from the Prefect to appear at court as 
a witness, refusing at his peril, the courtier quickly made his 
way there, and ascended the steps of the Hotel de Yille, where 
he was ordered to wait until the Prefect was ready, a long wait 
he had — this was a mere subterfuge on the part of the Prefect 
to detain him. 

In his absence, Brooks entered the house and successfully 
took away the golden chaplet in its leathern case. The con- 
nivance of the Prefect was criminal, and he could never face the 
old man on the paltry excuse as witness, but sent word to him 
to return home to await further orders. 

That individual went home, and was crazed with madness 
when he found out his loss, and made complaint in the proper 
quarter, but nothing came of it, and the robbery was soon 
forgotten. 

“I am truly sorry for Irene,” said the Prefect. 

“She deserves a better fate,” added Brooks. 

“There is no doubt,” continued the Prefect, “that the in- 
heritance is hers, she is the true scion of that old house, she 
sprang from the La Rouges. The first La Rouge married the 
Italian widow, the line of descent is direct. Paris has been 
their abiding place ever since.” 

“You still think she was born a criminal?” 

“There can be no doubt of it, she has every indication, and 
has been on the police books all her life, and her mother before 
her. Irene is excusable and should never be punished for 
crimes she could not wilfully commit.” 

“That, I presume, is why her husband and daughter have 
been estranged.” 

“But we find De Latour,” said the Prefect, “a criminal 
also.” 

“It must have been catching.” 

“Such a thing could never be, and I hope the heirs will 
come forward and be purged of this evil thing.” 

“We have got the heirloom,” said Brooks, “surely we can 
trace it to its original owner, the beautiful Italian lady, by 
scanning the records of the Vatican.” 

“It is said that it will remove the horror from the family, 
and that it is potent for good against evil.” 


The Count de Latour . 


53 


“I am not superstitious,” said Brooks, “but the fact of it 
having been handled by a saint is enough to exorcise any evil 
genius that may come in its way, and 1 think the evil one has 
had Irene and her people in his grasp long enough. She ought 
to be exonerated from crime committed long ago by persons she 
never saw.” 

“Don’t forget that the saints’ fingers are gone, and their 
good impression is rubbed off by the hands of the evil possess- 
ors, its various owners, who handled it with greedy eyes.” 

“Irene will be released soon?” 

“Yes, I will see toil,” answered the Prefect, “the fact of 
her having that birthmark 

“What birthmark?” interrupted Brooks, leaping to his 
feet nervously. 

“A mere mark on her neck,” replied the Prefect, looking 
suspiciously at him. 

Brooks seemed to be struck dumb at hearing this, but soon 
became calm again. 

“Did you not know this ill-fated family were indelibly 
marked like Cain ?” 

“I did not.” 

“Especially the women, every member of it have had hor- 
rors hovering over them.” 

“Strange fatality.” 

“And that a grave crime in a former age had been commit- 
ted by one of them only to be expiated by the blood of their 
children’s children.” 

“That is news to me.” 

“All of them came to a bad end, and Irene will suffer in 
the same way, she is born to be guillotined, hung or drowned.’ 

“May God have mercy upon her!” 

“My interest is one of charity for the poor criminal. There 
are wicked people in society, worse than Irene, who are subtle 
enough to escape the gallows and keep within the pale of the 
law.” 

“Am I to infer that criminals are not responsible agents in 
the crimes they commit?” 

“Exactly so! and I am soliciting the Papal authorities on 
behalf of that poor family, that is the reason why we wanted 
the chaplet or rosary. ” 


54 


The Count de Latour. 


“And my connection in the matter,” said Brooks, “is to 
reinstate the real heir, and I thought the chaplet would help to 
establish his identity.” 

When John Brooks left Paris, Irene was free, having all the 
comforts of life, she was for a time a lady chic and becoming. 

The police had smiled at his benevolence. Irene being left 
alone, she relapsed into her old ways and sought out her old 
cronies on the rag heap. She joined them again, and there she 
stood — happy in such a miserable condition. Instead of singing 
beatitudes, she was picking rags. It was her own choice, she 
preferred “rags and tags” to the dress of respectability, travel- 
ling on the streets at night with a basket on her shoulders. 

It is said a man cannot be a gentleman unless he is born 
one. Irene was born a lady, and was one until she became 
twenty-one years of age. She was versed in Belles-lettres 
etiquette, art, and music. Education was wasted in her case, 
for there was an iron-like brand quivering about her neck, a 
mark of horror, proving her to be of an illustrious family, and 
at the same time an unfortunate one. Extremes met to the fall 
and degradation of all any way connected with her. 

Thus, on the rag hill, we sketched this bizarre character. 
Henry Graggs and I made some useful studies of her. She was 
one moment cowering with shame under our glance, then fierce 
enough to mangle us with her long fingers. She hated us, and 
kept us at a distance. She looked the picture of despair, an 
Ichabod, whose glory had departed. The hand of fate was in- 
scrutable. She was once beautiful and human; now, she was 
animal-like and ugly. Her spirit had seen many trials. She 
looked as though she had just come out of a Stygian pit, the 
vortex of shame, misery and despair. 



Chapter IX. The Artist and the Warning. 



UR escapade with the students, on going home a'fter leav- 
ing Julie de Latour at the hotel, resulted in our rising 
late the next morning. Our pupils were waiting for 
their lessons. After teaching, we prepared to visit Julie. 
She anticipated us, however, by coming herself, and we were 
very glad to see her looking so bright and happy. 

“I have come to refuse this money,” she remarked with 
modesty and reserve. 

“Do not treat us in that distant fashion,” said Craggs. “I 
am sure we are kindly disposed towards you, and we love you 
as we would our own sister.” 

“I know it, but I must work as a hireling to earn money, 
and not accept gratuities from friends.” 

“Begin at once, dear Julie,” I exclaimed, “by kindly ar- 
ranging those drawings, while I place the wet canvases face to 
the wall. The pupils, being hurried this morning, neglected 
doing so.” 

“I will, if that will help you.” 

“Yes, Julie, make yourself at home, while we go and pre- 
pare for the sketching party — and, of course, you will accom- 


pany us.” 

Julie bowe*d in assent, and we hurried away. I saw that 
she felt happy to be near us. How condescending it was of her 
to come. All conventionalities were thrown aside. I was proud 
of her confidence. 

We went to the Bois de Boulogne. Our scholars were sur- 
prised to see Julie, and whispered among themselves, much to 
my annoyance. I could not understand why English and Amer- 
ican girls should become so Frenchified all at once. She could 
not understand their thoughts, she was happy in her blissful 
ignorance of the world. 

Upon our return to the studio in the afternoon, we had the 


56 


The Count de Latour. 


pleasure of finding the father of Henry Craggs patiently wait- 
ing for us. 

“Allow me the honor,” said Henry to us, “of introducing 
my father to you, Mr. John Craggs, my friends, Miss Julie de 
Latour and Mr. Noel Payton.” 

We expressed ourselves glad to see him, and felt so, for 
Henry’s face lighted up with pleasure, and he wore a smile of 
contentment. I was pleased indeed, never having seen him look 
so happy. 

“I have returned from the East,” said Mr. John Craggs, 
“for the distinct purpose of warning this little lady,” pointing 
to Julie. 

“Do not alarm us, I pray,” I exclaimed, “we will see that 
she is kept from all annoyance.” 

“Does it concern my parents?” asked 
Julie, timidly. 

“No, it does not; but there is an en- 
vironment about your family, anything 
but conducive to your welfare.” 

“Iam innocent of any wrong-doing.” 
“That is true, Mademoiselle, yet there 
is a person in Paris whose uncontrollable 
impulse to crime may lead her to seek ven- 
geance on an innocent head. She suffers 
from a horrible and deadly remorse.” 

“Poor woman!” said Julie, sympa- 
thetically, “I must try and comfort her.” 

“You will find her on the garbage heap, she is a rag-picker 
named Irene Morin.” 

“We go there to-morrow,” I said excitedly. 

John Craggs and his son retired to the salon. Their con- 
versation was between themselves, after which the former bid 
us au revoir and went away. 

Henry Craggs then came to us, very much agitated, which 
made me sorry his father had come, he made us very miserable. 

There was I, companion to Craggs and chaperon to Julie. 
He required looking after as much as an infant would have done. 
His father left him morose and unhappy, no doubt, by the 
Weird language of mysterious warning. 

The disposition and general make-up of John Craggs was 



John Craggs. 


The Count de Latour. 


57 


entirely different to that of Henry. I thought it strange that 
they should be so unlike each other. 

Julie did not care a fig about the warning, and feared noth- 
ing from the old lady. 

We went down to the rag-pickers’ paradise. She was there, 
as usual; and I saw her cast upon Julie an unmerciful look of 
hatred. I noticed Craggs tremble, and his face became pallid. 
Julie was innocent and had no dread in her little heart. 

Irene Morin’s heart was as stone, the ranklings of spite, 
vengeance and hatred had made her inhuman. She gloated over 
her findings, as a vulture over it carrion. 

That garbage heap was composed of a variety of objects 
quite profitable to her. The smallest scrap of paper became a 
source of profit. The lead of old provis- 
ion tins is melted down. Scraps of paper 
go to the cardboard factory. Orange peel 
to the marmalade maker. The ideas sug- 
gested are not always agreeable; to see 
Irene fishing orange peel from the heap 
was enough to make one forswear marma- 
lade. The most valuable refuse — that 
which brings two francs the kilo — is hair, 
the long goes to the hair dresser, the short 
is used for clarifying oils. 

“Why do you love to paint misery?” 
asked Julie, as I placed her easel in posi- 
tion and the pencil in her hand. 

“Because rags are multiform and artistic, infinite in variety 
of color, more easily handled, and making a better picture.” 

“Nature in her highest aspects is preferable, I should 
think.” 

“So it is, but there is a craze and a fashion for this, Mu- 
rillo was the expounder of it. Impressional art is as modern as 
that of the Incoherents.” 

“There is much inconsistency among artists.” 

“Yes, we soon tire of one style, and are freeing ourselves 
from the Renaissance, growing into the purely natural, avoid- 
ing the extreme realistic.” 

‘ k Can I learn aerial perspective or the placing of atmosphere ?” 

“You require genius, ‘it cannot be taught, but I can show 



58 


The Count de Latour. 


you what is great art, and teach you how to make a great 
picture.” 

“I prefer painting soul pictures.” 

“An original work is a photograph of the artist, it is the 
impression of his soul, and cannot be successfully copied by 
another artist.” 

As I was guiding the hand of Julie on the canvas, showing 
her the meaning of the touch of precision, I chanced to look 
round and saw Craggs daubbing away like a madman; his pal- 
ette was filled with much color; he used large brushes, his eyes 
were staring unnaturally, and his face was deathly pale. I went 
at once to see his work and was startled, for it was the work of 
a lunatic. 

“What are you doing, Craggs?” I asked, and received no 
answer, he was too busy. 

I beckoned Julie to come, and we 
watched the progress of a wonderful 
painting. How can I explain it? This 
impress of a diseased brain. Poor Craggs 
was not himself, but another person alto- 
gether, and I saw at once that the impast- 
ing or laying on of the color was not mod- 
ern, but belonged to a bygone age. It was 
decorative, quite opposite to the pre- 
Raphaelite school, yet there was skill 

“Daubbing away like a • 

Madman.” m lb. 

He labored as though his whole life depended upon it, he 
never heeded our presence, his fit of painting was uncontroll- 
able, he was lost in the maze of a dream. He painted heedless 
of transparency and chiaroscuro. The delineation and compo- 
sition of the objects were wonderfully correct. It grew before 
our astonished eyes. It was an erratic picture of hieroglyphics; 
the winged god and the vertebrated creature were forcibly 
distinct. 

It represented stories of a very distant age, and I knew 
Craggs had read about these things in the library of the British 
museum. I had no idea he could place all his reading upon a 
piece of canvas. He did so, it became gradually crowded with 
peculiar devices and weird figures. He plastered his brains — 
so to vulgarly speak — with a brush upon a flat surface. This 



The Count de Latour. 


59 


phenomenal art brought to mind the works of William Blake 
and John Martin. 

I always thought art was the expression of the character of 
the artist, and also the character of his surroundings. Artistic 
form was attained by studying comparisons between Greek art 
and Greek life, between the Renaissance and its artists, between 
the magnanimity of Michael Angelo and the ceiling of the Six- 
tine Chapel. However much these tally in their effect on our 
feeling, this similarity of subjective impression does not suffi- 
ciently explain the objective phenomenon. 

Titian, the colorist, in his youth expressed the spirit of the 
Renaissance,* and in his old age the spirit of the catholic re- 
action. His works are symbols, indicative of peculiarities 
which might be equally indicated in literature or unwritten 
speech. 

Henry Craggs was the exponent of vagery, no human being 
could read his forms. This impulsive inspira- 
tion swept upon him at the dump hill; we 
watched his skilful pencil for the period of two 
hours, when it dropped from his hand and fell 
to the ground. I immediately disengaged his 
palette; he rubbed his eyes as though awaking 
from a deep sleep, looking around in a hazy 
and senseless manner. 

“Where is she?” he loudly asked. 

“Who?” 

/r«i ill! a tutl i • i It W3iS 9.11 erratic 

u The old lady, of course. Why did you Picture/’ 
allow her to grasp me so? I thought she would choke me.” 

“She has never been near you. Look! she is still there.” 

“She has been sleeping on her basket all the time,” said 
Julie, “and she is also rubbing her eyes.” 

Craggs was thoughtful and silent, he looked at his paint- 
ing, and his frame quivered. 

“Those horrid dreams will never leave me!” he exclaimed, 
holding his head in his hands. 

“It was no dream, Craggs; see what you have painted! 
What a wonderful man you are. We saw you do it.” 

He looked at Irene as she was placing the basket on her 
shoulders. He pitied her from the bottom of his kind heart. 
Then Henry Craggs was himself again, his other self had dis- 



60 


The Count de Latour. 


appeared. He handed me a five franc piece to give Irene as a 
douceur , and 1 took it over to her, with thanks for allowing us 
to sketch her. She grasped it with her bony fingers, but it fell 
to the ground, it seemed to burn her hand, yet in a moment 
more she had it in her pocket. This was strange, I never saw 
such an unkempt woman, such a remnant of humanity in all my 
life. 

We returned home, on our way leaving Julie at her Hotel, 
and I felt a voice intuitively telling me to watch Craggs; all I 
saw him do was to place the picture out of sight, it pained him 
to see it. I refrained from alluding to it, wondering how he 
could be so sensitive. Was it the environment his father had 
spoken of? No, Julie was safe. Why Craggs should suffer I 
could not tell. 

Restless curiosity conquered me. In secret I studied his 
picture. 

In the centre, with the high lights thick and strong, was a 
cruse of curious shape, marked with ancient Semitic writing, 
from which issued a sword. There was a figure above this, 
enveloped in flames, it was the picture of a Tall, thin man. 
There was another figure lying impaled, under him was a 
man eating grass ravenously while crawling on the ground. 
There was hand- writing painted on cloudy space, from the Book 
of Daniel, “ Mene , Mene, tekel Zfpharsin .” I saw also a colos- 
sal Nebo and a winged Asshur, at whose feet lay a substance in 
lump like gold, it seemed to have come out of the mouth of 
Asshur; near this was a Bishop’s mitre. There was a Roman 
arch of triumph, upon it was a man on horseback, holding a 
cross well aloft, from which hung a banner inscribed with the 
Latin words, “In hoc signo vinces ” (Constantine the Great; 
vide the historian Eusebius). There was also a man playing on 
a harp, near flames which were burning people, and above him 
was a letter, floating in a sea painted red. Upon that Sea of 
Blood I saw distinctly that letter. It was the letter “N.” 




Chapter X. The Heir and the Mystery. 

* COULD not resist the yearning I felt to 
visit Julie at once. After ascending the 
staircase of her Hotel, I was soon ensconsed 
in an armchair in the drawing-room. Her 
voice was near, and I heard her sing: 

INVOCATION 

Hear, Oh, hear the maiden’s prayer, 

And deign to lend an ear. 

Take away the sinful snare, 

She knows that Thou art near. 

Grant her grace and strength, O Lord, 
Take from her every pain; 

Her trust is in Thy holy word, 

She does not ask in vain. 



Love her in a world of strife, 
And dry her tearful eye. 

Love her all her earthly life, 
And guide her from on high. 

Guide her footsteps day by day, 
And let her walk aright. 

May her guardian angel stay, 
To watch her in the night. 

Cover her with angel wings, 
From her do not depart. 

To Thee, Lord, alone she sings; 
Bless her contrite heart. 

Let her to Thy presence fly, 

And make her heart rejoice. 

Listen to her pensive sigh, 

Hear her youthful voice. 

Rain upon her from above, 

Thy living tongues of fire. 

Make her feel Thy godly love, 
Her pleading soul inspire. 


\ 


62 


The Count de Latour. 


Julie was an improvisateur and a visionary. I thought she 
had caught that which seemed to be very infectious. She came 
tripping in to see me, and I imagined her to be clothed with an 
ether of light, luminous and bright, Was I, too, verging on the 
supernatural? Were my eyes deceiving me? Was the strain 
on my nerves at the garbage heap too much for me? 

There was something about Julie that made her angelic. 
Love is blind. I assert that she carried about her an aura, 
which captivated me, and I felt extreme love and bliss. 

‘ Dear Julie, how charming of you to sing so sweetly. 
Your voice has improved.” 

4 ‘I know that your kind feeling for me, in my lonely condi- 
tion, prompts you to cheer and admire me. ” 

. “For what are we here but to cheer 
** each other.” 

4 4 I am glad you have come, for I have 
received a letter from the Prince, speaking 
^ of the illness of Irene.” 

Julie placed the letter in my hands, 
^ which I perused : 

^ Moscow, May 19th, 188 — . 

Chere Mile, de Latour: I have succeeded 
« in keeping the law in abeyance. My interview 
; with the Archimandrite of the Greek Church 
" was fruitful. His appeal to the Vatican is rec- 
ognized. Attend to the instructions given to 
John Craggs. He is my Locum Tenens to carry- 
luminous and Bright.’ Qut m y wishes. Administer to that poor lady, 
Irene Morin, as a guardian angel. Her breast imprisons many secrets. 
I leave to-day for St. Petersburg to consult with the Czar of all the 
Russias. Your devoted servant, 

Chandra Gupta. 

‘ 4 If you wish, I will conduct you to Irene,” I said, anxi- 
ously. 



44 Thank you; but Mr. Craggs has not told me to go.” 

44 I am sure she is sick. Do let us go,” I urged. 

We lost no time in arriving at the flat in Belleville, where 
Irene was domiciled. The old lady was helpless. I sent the 
concierge to bring a doctor, who asked me to remain at his side. 

“This is a new case to me,” said he, “the symptoms are 
very complicated.” 

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, thoughtfully. 


The Count de Latour. 


63 


“Yes, and you must bring Dr. Charcot. You will find him 
at his rooms in Passage de Panorama. ” 

I went at once and soon had Dr. Charcot by the side of Irene. 

“She is a physical wreck,” said he, “she has received a 
severe shock, please soothe her.” 

After reviving a little, Irene gazed around at us with a 
“wild, misgiving eye. ” 

“Speak! Madame, speak!” urged Dr. Charcot. “Tell us 
all; you have a tale to unfold.” 

Bowing her head she whispered, languidly: 

“The Count do Latour’s heir is no more.” 

Julie began to weep. 

“Continue,” said the Doctor. 

“He died in India under the name of Thomas Craggs.” 

“Then my father is not the 
Count?” asked Julie, in a trans- 
port of distress. 

“No! my sin is expiated. 

Your father is a pretender.” 

In her delirious raving, we 
caught a few sentences: 

“The end has come. The 
king’s evil is crossed. I am dual, “ She comes to me now.” 

my soul enters eternity to face the wronged. On my offspring 
I am doomed to leave the curse. My daughter is there, she 
comes to me now. I am no longer her mother. She gave birth 
to a son, who is the Ancient of Days. He is the Sage of a for- 
gotten epoch, and is on earth for the last time. He is crushed 
by his sins.” 

Irene sank back exhausted, breathing heavily; poor, worn- 
out spirit, her earthly life had been chequered. 

“Speak again if you can,” requested the Doctor. 

“Woe! Woe! The curse still falls, save him!” 

“What is his name?” I interposed, eagerly. 

“His name is Legion,” she groaned. 

Her jaws were forever fastened. Before us lay the remains 
of Irene Morin, having passed away without a struggle. 

“Poor woman! said the doctors, sympathetically. 

Julie and I shed silent tears over her. Death is the master 
of all, calling forth our most heartfelt sympathies. 



64 


The Count de Latour. 


‘This is a case,” quietly said Dr. Charcot, “of peculiar 
aberration, which causes me to advance the theory by saying 
that this woman had more than one life here; the original per- 
son, who inhabited her body, departed long ago. The soul who 
has just left us, and who spake to us, was a male. Of that I am 
positive, for the faculties of the brain have long been in disue- 
tude. Her person could not have existed without extraordinary 
spiritual conditions to keep it upon earth, for a purpose of 
which we know nothing. The formation of the skull shows 
great susceptibility of impressions, and she could throw certain 
people into catalepsy, through hypnotic suggestion, molding 
them to her will and making them blindly obey her. When 
under the benign halo of her sub-conscience, she could bo 
angelic. In her normal state, she fell into the opposite extreme, 
displaying an evil spirit of subtle force. 
Such mysteries have often come under my 
notice. The Irene Morin of to-day is not 
the Irene Morin of sixty years ago. This 
seems paradoxical, but her last words 
ought to explain much. God works in 
mysterious ways.” 

“You believe that one body may con- 
tain several spiritual entities, consecu- 
tively?” asked the other Doctor, incredu- 
lously. 

“The Master of ah.” “Merely hypothesis,” answered Dr. 

Charcot, “based upon deductions from personal observation, a 
slight deviation from the accepted analogies of materia medica. ” 

Julie de Latour was grieved to think her father was a 
usurper, she could not explain the matter at all. I was astounded 
also at the declaration of the old lady. 

I had never heard of Thomas Craggs, which made me 
anxious to solve the mystery. 

John Craggs attended to the obsequies of Irene, and “one 
more unfortunate” was laid away in Pore Lachaise cemetery. 

Henry Craggs worked at his art with a will, and we were 
once more on our usual steady path, receiving much attention 
from his father. We told that gentleman what Irene had dis- 
closed, he apparently took no notice of it, pretending to know 
nothing of Thomas Craggs. 



The Count de Latour. 


65 


We were fast becoming notorious. Dr. Charcot and the 
Prefect paid us a visits and I saw them look at Henry with 
curious eyes. It was him they came to see. I felt there 
was something serious going on. Then followed Lord Lyons 
and Antonin Proust, who also regarded Henry with deep in- 
terest. 

With the view of shielding him from annoyance, I took 
special care not to show them the painting, as it would have 
made them more inquisitive. Poor Henry did not like their 
society, he was becoming abrupt; losing his polished manners, 
and unconcerned about displaying his art. 

I may observe that matters were progressing favorably 
between Julie and myself, we were warm friends, and in love. 
Such a feeling had never entered the heart of Henry. It was 
extraordinary, because there were many 
prepossessing ladies, who came to our 
studio from almost every nation; and I 
knew they were ready to enter prelimin- 
aries with a view to matrimony. 

Dowagers and chaperones often asked 
me about him. 

“Does he carry his family escutcheon 
with him?” asked one lady, adding, “I 
have consulted the Peerages to no pur- 
pose. ” 

Henry Craggs was not communica- “A Forgotten Epoch.” 
tive, but inclined to be taciturn, and I believe this reserve drew 
people to him, he was a human magnet; and I know that the 
girls snubbed the men who danced attendance on them, but they 
flocked around Craggs, pretending to admire his work. My 
own paintings were casually glanced at by those nymphs, their 
appreciation of Craggs’ work knew no bounds. 

My engagement to Julie put an end to everything in the 
way of captious criticism from mistaken, but kindly disposed 
lady friends. 

Henry Craggs drew closer to us, and I believe a more gen- 
erous disposition never existed; he was the personification of all 
the attributes of a diety. 

What had I done to deserve such consideration at his hands ? 
Once I felt jealous, and now— 1 kept secrets from him. Yet, 



66 


The Count de Latour. 


he loved me with a love that was nothing short of divine. I 
could not realize it. 

Since the death of Irene, he seemed to grow stronger; he 
had more animation. 

“Henry,” I said to him one day, blithely, “I am glad you 
like Julie, she will always be our companion.” 

“I am more than glad,” he answered, with tender anxiety, 
“I had feared she would have renounced the world, after her 
father’s disgrace.” 

“You were wrong.” 

“I was,” said he, “but you know of what material the 
world is made. How easy it is for youth, innocence and beauty 
to be entrapped in its snare. I am content now to know that 
she will be happy.” 

“We are also pleased to see you improving, and more 
happy than you were. Since Irene’s death ” 

“Pray do not mention her!” he excitedly remonstrated. 

“Depend upon me, dear friend, I will not.” 

I was amazed at his excitement, not divining the cause. 




Chapter XL The Mission and the Child. 

MONO our visitors was a foreigner who 
was on friendly terms with Henry Craggs. 
He was sallow in complexion and dilapi- 
dated in dress. I did not care to make 
his acquaintance. Henry discreetly kept 
him from the studio, and always conducted 
him to his own sanctum. 

In drawing the line, we never treated 
a fellow creature disdainfully, and as M. 
Chinnery, the connoisseur, was a stickler 
for etiquette, we were always in proper 
order. Nothing in the way of palettes or 
work-easels were ever allowed to lie about the studio, and no 
half- finished pictures were to be seen. 

Henry introduced me to the foreigner at his own request, 
and I found that he had good reasons for dressing in that style. 

“I have the organ of inquisitiveness as well developed as 
that bump upon yourself,” he said to me, “and I am taking 
degrees at the Sorbonne (University of Paris). My name is 
Sandra Coitus.” 

“Please explain why you compare yourself to me in the 
development you speak of. ” 

“I refer to our respective positions as investigators, and 
have had the honor of knowing Henry Craggs and his father 
before you became acquainted with them. I have been working 
in their interests in the Ottoman Empire, under the guidance of 
the Prince, and have come to Paris on the same errand.” 

“If I can be of service to you, please mention it.” 




68 


The Count de Latour. 


“You certainly can, and I desire your presence at Vaugi- 
rard. I teach at the mission there every Sunday.” 

“Kindly give me the address. ” 

“The pastor lives at 3 Rue Thiboumary.” 

I was well received at the above address, by the pastor of 
the Protestant mission, Jules de Lawnay. His ascendent was 
the last commandant of the Bastile. He graduated at the semi- 
nary of St. Sulpice, and studied at Rome in the sacred college 
of Cardinals; joined the Company of Jesus, by advice of Father 
Rozaven, vicar-general of the Jesuits. He renounced all, and 
became a missionary in Paris. 

He had the faculty of interesting the most influential, and 
making them teachers iike himself. At his home I met Austrian 
Barons, English Lords, Chinese Mandar- 
ins, and Armenian Princes. 

Dr. de Lawnay was a Baptist, he im- 
immersed his converts, in the way laid 
down by Alexander Campbell. The cult is 
known as the Disciples, and their mission 
was supported by the Board at Cincinnati. 

Sandra Coitus was a Hindoo. He 
formally introduced me to that cosmopoli- 
tan group of Parsees, Mohammedans, Zoro- 
astrians and Confucians, who had become 
Christians under the teaching of that won- 
derful pastor. 

“My duty in this quarter, is to search for a missing child, 
stolen in Constantinople,” said Sandra Coitus. 

Have you spoken to the pastor about it?” 

Not at all! The abductors are on the qui m” 

We went to the mission hall, and saw about five hundred 
children; some were slight, some were dirty, and many were 
clean. What a mixture of humanity! was that offspring from 
the lowest orders of Paris, ready to receive the Gospel. What 
loving souls had Dr. de Lawnay and his lady, and how diligent 
were the foreign teachers in their truly noble work. 

“Do you recognize in this little girl,” said Sandra Coitus 
to me in a low, composed manner, after conducting me to his 
class, “a likeness to some person you have seen?” 

He pointed to a delicate child about five years old. 



The Count de Latour. 


69 


I do, I answered, ‘‘jet cannot recall to mind who she is 

like. ” 

“That is all I desire,” he said, good-humoredly. “That 
admission alone places me on the right track.” 

Sandra Coitus, the Buddhist, was 
earnest; he taught his class well. The 
children received all the benefits of a Chris- 
tian teacher, for I noticed that he had been 
converted. 

I left him at his apartments in the 
Latin quarter, and went towards the Quai 
d’ Orsay, and was upon the point of cross- 
ing the bridge of St. Philippe du Houle, 
when a woman crossed my path in fear 
and haste. I turned to watch her flitting 
figure, and she too, turned. A cold chill 
child of the Mission, came over me. I knew that face — who 

could she be — clad in shabby genteel garments, hurrying by. 
The face of the child and the face of the woman were similar, 
and I must make the painful confession, I recognized a like- 
ness of them both to the girl I loved. An outcast child, 
and an alleged guilty woman, so like the one I was about to 
marry, the beautiful girl of the studio, Julie de Latour. 

I became sick at heart, my head swam as 
my spirit recoiled from the Hindoos, Chandra 
Gupta and Sandra Coitus. They -were the 
bane of my life, exercising inhuman power 
over me. 

I felt lonely, when I discovered that 
J ulie had gone out without a chaperone, but 
I found my friend Henry Craggs taking a 
stroll in Parc Monceau. I joined him. 

After evensong at the Church of the Em- 
bassy, w T e went to the Hotel in the Rue St. , . TTT 

/ 7 A Woman Crossed my 

Roch. I regretted doing so, for we found Path. • 

Julie very much flushed and excited, vainly trying to suppress 
her emotions. 

“Mademoiselle de Latour,” said Henry, kindly, “let noth- 
ing disturb you, we came to inquire the reason of your absence 
from church, thinking you might be ill.” 




70 


The Count de Latour. 


“Only a little shocked,” answered Julie, with impatience, 
“by Mr. John Craggs, your father, who bid me remain indoors 
as much as possible, as an event would occur of a sad nature.” 

“We will protect you,” said Henry, “my father is inter- 
ested in your welfare, and perhaps his fears are groundless.” 

“1 feel coming danger, pray do not ask me any questions,” 
she said, in an accent of chagrin and with averted eyes. 

“You are too excitable, Julie,” I said, breathlessly solicit- 
ous, “there is no reason for it.” 

I was piqued at her behavior. She looked like one who 
had committed an overt act, and ashamed to confess it, a secret 
was wrapt in her bosom. Her manner showed it, and I was 
more miserable than ever. Perhaps I was too hasty in my 
judgment. The events of that day were racing through my 
brain, each face taking hold in its mental peregrinations there. 
The woman at the bridge, the child of the mission, and Julie in 

the hotel, were one and the same 
person to me. 

Her reticent speech and 
timid accent betrayed her. Yet, 
I felt drawn towards her as a 
champion and a lover. It was a 
display of womanhood, every 
woman has her secrets. Such 
“Help! Help!” were my thoughts as Henry and 

I leisurely sauntered along the Rue de Rivoli. 

We were startled by an unusual rushing of people across 
the Place de la Concorde toward the river. The electric lights 
shone upon the animated scene. The rush of people was the 
response to a cry of “help, help,” which had arisen faintly 
from the water. We joined the throng. 

The gendarmes were carrying an apparently lifeless body 
to a neighboring pharmacy, on the other side of the river; it was 
a woman, and our way was blocked by the crowd, preventing 
us going near. 



We were not surprised to see a girl come tearing along the 
bridge, running in haste toward us, as one sees that every day. 
She tried to hide her features by a -veil. 

The crowd made way for her, they inwardly felt she had a 
claim on the drowned lady, and respectfully allowed her to pass. 


The Count de Latour. 


71 


As she came under the red light of the pharmacy, we recognized 
Julie de Latour. The gendarmes made room for her to pass in, 
and she was lost to view. 

I was riveted to the spot, my limbs refused their office. I 
looked at Henry, he was pale as death, and he regarded me 
with pity. 

I wanted to follow Julie, but I could not force myself into 
her private affairs; if she desired to keep me in ignorance, I had 
nothing to say, but submit with as good grace as my feelings 
would allow. I was grieved to see my betrothed running about 
Paris at night, in disguise, and alone. Such proceedings were 
scarcely permissable. I had observed a nod of recognition on 
the part of the gendarmes. They knew her, she could never 
have entered otherwise. 

If her heart prompted her to act the good Samaritan, by 
nursing drowning women to life again, taken from the river 
Seine, it was a misguided heart, which would bring her in con- 
tact with the vicious, for which company she was anything 
hut fit. 

We stood there waiting, until the crowd dispersed. Julie 
did not appear, and we also went sorrowfully home. 




Chapter XII. The Kevelation and the Princess. 

BE morning paper, Le Petit Journal , 
printed an item of the occurrence in its 
columns: 

“An unknown woman narrowly es- 
caped drowning by suicide. She appears 
to be an Algerian, and wears a ring im- 
pressed with the crest of an old family. 
She is recovering at the Hotel Dieu, and 
refuses to give our redacteur any informa- 
tion regarding her identity. ” 

Henry Craggs and I felt very gloomy, 
not knowing which wav to turn for the 
best, when his father came in. 

“Dear boys!” he exclaimed, “there is no need for you to be 
so miserable.” 

“We have reason to feel miserable.” 

“You will be happy when I tell you that your fears are ill- 
founded.” 

“Please explain,” said Henry, somewhat bewildered. 
“Madame de Latour is not drowned. It was she you saw 
at the bridge.” 

“Impossible!” I exclaimed, incredulously. 

“Yes, and you must excuse Julie, she is a dear, good girl. 
Her mother had often told her she would end her life, and Julie 
was prepared for it.” 

“That was what disturbed Julie.” 

“Filial affection, nothing more.” 

“Where is her father, the Count?” 

“In Turkey, the report was correct; he sold his nieces after 
gambling away their money.” 

“What unheard of cruelty!” 

“You will readily understand,” said John Craggs, ten- 
derly, “that his wife could not face the world again, she became 



The Count de Latour . 


73 


almost demented and tried to drown herself. But I am here to 
say that part of Irene Morin’s life must be made known to 
you. My wife was her daughter, and yon, Henry, are her 
grandson.” 

We stared with open eyes at this unpleasant revelation. 

‘‘Am I the grandson of Irene, the chiffonniere?” asked 
Henry, ironically and mournfully firm. 

“Yes, my son, you are,” replied his father, with grave 
directness. 

“Then it is useless me trying to throw it off. I am of low 
birth,” said he, with profound grief, “I feel at times very low, 



“At Work.” 

carrying a depressing load which crushes me to earth. I envy 
the ostrich, who is happy in the illusion of being securely out 
of sight, by burying its head in the sand. ” 

“Do not brood over myths,” I said to him, “it is a family 
secret, which will never be divulged, and the misdeeds of your 
grandmother will be as shrouded in obscurity as ‘Junius,’ never 
hurting your standing in society.” 

“My feelings, my inward soul is drooping with shame,” he 
ejaculated. 

“You are not responsible for the sins of others,” I ex- 
claimed, in warning. 

“Yes, lam; I bear their guilty burdens. Scripture does 
not lie. I am an expounder of its truth, and there is no hope 
for me.” 

“My dear friend!” I cried, somewhat vehemently, feeling 


74 


The Count de Latour. 


annoyed at his literal interpretation, “here you are a medalist, 
in the gayest city in the world, surrounded by charming ad- 
mirers, on the road to fame, your fortune already made; tell 
me what more any reasonable man can want?” 

“My life is centered in the happiness of yourself and J ulie,” 
was his innocent answer. 

“Julie and I always outrival each other in our efforts to 
please you, and I declare that we both esteem and love you, and 
our most ardent wish is to see you happy,” lsaid, in a brotherly 
way. 

Men so seldom love each other, that the case of Damon and 
Pythias is unique. I felt intellectually conceited at that moment. 
Henry regarded me with a wonderful spark of light in his eyes. 
Had I been a woman, there would have existed in my bosom a 
thrilling response to it. No woman could have withstood that 

look of unspeakable love. It 
was for me — unnatural as it was 
— making me subside with deep 
reflection. 

The doctors advise a change 
of air for Julie and her mother,” 
said John Craggs, “and I sug- 
gest the same for you.” 

“Where are they going?” 
I asked, carelessly. 

“To Dieppe.” 

“Why not Brest or Nice?” 

“It was Julie herself who mentioned Dieppe, and I could 
not persuade her against her wishes. ” 

I saw Julie before they went, and she was rapturous in her 
love for me. Mr. John Craggs had said that she was a dear, 
good girl, and I firmly believed it. I never tried to pry into 
her secrets. She loved me the more for that. The mistrust I 
had entertained flew away like the wind as she left me with a 
parting kiss. The imprint of her cherry lips remained; it was 
something indefinable, very ecstatic, and sweetly incoherent. 

The habitues of the cafes near the railway station of St. 
Lazare saw two tourists hurrying to catch the western train. 
They nodded in recognition. The tourists were Henry Craggs 
and myself. In due course we arrived at Dieppe, and were 



The Count de Latour. 


75 


soon in our Hotel (de Commerce) in the market place, where 
stands the statue of Admiral Duquesne. 

The sketching party were awaiting us, and we commenced 
operations on the beach, where the castle on a high rock, and 
the pier could be viewed, as a background to the barques of the 
fishermen breasting the waves. 

Julie joined us, leaving her mother at the Hotel, convales- 
cent and under proper care, assuring me that her mother was 
anxious to renew the acquaintance so happily formed during 
their stay in London, when she felt able to do so. 

“I can never paint moving waves,” she said, after we had 
commenced our work. 

“You must catch the spirit of movement.” 

She looked at me inquiringly, with a smile upon her sweet 

face. 

“How enigmatical!” she exclaimed, demurely. 

“You must put life into the water, make it a living water.” 

“Oh, dear! I will never learn anything.” 

I took the palette knife, mixed white and cobalt together; 
using a stiff brush, placed quickly the crests of the waves upon 
the canvas, threw the spray from the wind, creating atmos- 
phere, movement and transparency at the same time. 

After practicing, she made a very fair attempt at what is 
considered difficult in art. 

Then she took me into her confidence, as we sat on the 
beach, listening to the murmuring breakers, as they washed the 
rolling pebbles, in harmony with the shriek of the sea-gull, hov- 
ering above our heads. We exchanged vows, as I suppose 
lovers usually do, only less demonstrative and with fewer words. 

We watched the artists at work. Henry and the amateurs 
were having a gay time. He glanced at us, and I never in all 
my life saw him so happy as at that moment. He was pleased 
beyond measure to see us together, as I held in my own palm 
the little, dainty hand of Julie. 

How contradictory is nature! If I had seen him thus, my 
soul would have been eaten up with the torture of jealous pangs. 
Henry had not one iota of this feeling in him. In our sight he 
was a perfect being, a sort of demi-god; not even thinking of 
the proper state of existence, marriage. He was always work- 
ing for the well-being of others. 


76 


Tice Count de Latour. 


“Do 3 r ou know what brought us to Dieppe?” asked Julie, 
innocently, looking up. 

“How can I know, I am not a mind-reader, nor have I 
second sight,” I rejoined, lightly. 

“A commission given me by our friend the Prince, perhaps 
you will help me.” 

“And you, Julie, are in his toils also?” 

“Yes, he evidently thinks you and I were born under the 
same star.” 

“Why so?” 

“He sent you on an errand of discovery once, and he wishes 
me to do the same.” 

I will go with you, Julie. Is it to Kamchatka, Timbuctoo 
or the North Pole?” I asked, with feigned 
lightness. 

“No, read for yourself.” 

She handed me the letter, I recog- 
nized the hand-writing of the Prince. It 
ran thus: 

Constantinople, June 1st, 188 — . 

Dear Mile, de Latour: Matters are pro- 
gressing, your father is well, having been 
favored by the Holy Synod of St. Petersburg. 
The last proofs are necessary. Go to Dieppe 
in Normandy, visit the chateau d’ Arques; ask 
the janitor to dig under the door of the keep. 
Place what you find there in your mother’s 
care, and on no account show them to Henry 
Craggs. He must not touch them, for evil may fall upon us, much 
worse than lingering death. Your friend, 

Chandra Gupta. 

I thought the Prince was an imprudent man, to send Julie 
on such an errand, but it was not so bad as my bold robbery of 
the dead. I was a ghoul to rob her lady ancestor, yet I dared 
not breathe a word to her about it. 

The moment Julie replaced the letter in her pocket, a cry 
startled us. Looking in that direction, we were surprised to 
see Henry Craggs holding a young lady by the arm, and slightly 
shaking her. I shall never forget the sight, so unlike him and 
so ungallant. The lady looked at him in angry recognition, and 
he regarded her with a fierce look. They both stood trembling, 
in attitude like a group of statuary. 



The Count de Latour. 


77 


For the first time, I saw him angry with uncontrollable 
passion; his splendid teeth were clenched, his countenance was 
repellant with suppressed fury. He had said that he was an 
expounder of Scriptural truths. If so, I had no power to cast 
out that demon which seemed to be in him. He looked as 
though there were a legion of demons in him. 

His grasp loosened as he fell to the ground, while the lady 
wept bitterly. Julie applied restoratives, as the other ladies 
went away, crying in their indignation, “coward,” taking 
the injured lady with them. 

Poor Henry was dazed for some time, and when he recov- 
ered, asked pleadingly if anything had gone wrong. 




Mile. Claire Beauharnais. Portrait of Napoleon. 

“Nothing at all,” I said, making light of the incident. 

“I am sure there was another dream, for I felt an impulse 
to crime,” said he, dejectedly. 

We went to our respective Hotels, and I lost no time in 
going to the home of the outraged young lady, to apologize for 
my friend’s behavior. I was responsible to her parents, being 
the organizer of the class. 

Upon being ushered into the reception room, she arose and 
cordially welcomed me. I observed that she was a woman of 
queenly attainments. Her features were classic Roman, and 
her complexion slightly dark. She was southern and sprang 
from the Latin race; such I concluded. 

“Mademoiselle,” I said, on entering, “I have not lost a 


78 


The Count de Latour. 


moment in coming to inquire after your health, and to humbly 
offer an apology for the behavior of my friend. ” 

“I thank you, sir,” she said, gratefully. “It is I who should 
apologize. I was rude enough to forget my manners in being 
familiar with him, and I assure you, it was my own impulsive 
nature which caused it.” 

“He had no right to hold you as he did. ” 

“He had, it was an admonishment which I deserved at his 
hands,” she said, with a gesture of haughty amusement. 

“I am glad you look upon it in that forgiving way.” 

“I felt sure I had seen him before, and I think he thought 
the same of me. ” 

“I must say, your mutual recognition resulted in a start- 
ling contretemps ,” I said, with increasing interest. 

“It did, but I suppose that is our way of greeting,” she 
meditated. 

I found that I had another erratic person to deal with. I 
watched her as she sat there, like a languid Theodora or a 
Salome, clad in the vesture of modern style. She had a restless 
eye as her thoughts ran over space, and I pictured her on a 
throne of ivory, sapphire and gold, and trembled to think of a 
victim who might cross her purpose, for I instinctively knew 
that she could be merciless if she so desired. Yet she was 
cultured and beautiful, with the carriage of a Princess. 

“I entreat you,” she said, beseechingly, “to allow this 
painful incident to pass.” 

“Please remember, he was severely censured by your 
friends.” 

“I will dispel all thoughts on that head,” she answered, 
imperiously. 

I looked upon the wall, and casually noticed a fine painting 
of Napoleon Bonaparte, which I praised as being remarkably 
well executed by a master. 

“Very fine handling of the First Consul,” I said. 

“Yes, that is much admired.” 

“A copy of the portrait at Versailles, I presume.” 

“Not a copy, it is by the artist, Louis David, and is smaller 
than his picture at Versailles.” 

“May I ask how it came into your possession?” 


The Count de Latour. 


79 


“Of course you may, it belonged to my grandmother, 
Donna Maria, Queen of Portugal, who received it from her 
father.” 

“What was his name?” 

“Eugene Beauharnais. ” 







Chapter XIII. The Genius and the Ordeal. 

EFORE us rose the stronghold, the fortress 
of Duke William, the son of Arlette. Upon 
a rocky hill, round the summit, were the 
white walls of stone sunk into the living 
rock; glistening like a fairy palace in the 
sunlight, bringing to mind the giant cas- 
tles of old. The gateway, the keep, the 
turret and the dungeon were intaot. 

In the valley beneath ran the river 
Arques, named after the castle. On its 
bank stands the church wherein the Con- 
queror prayed before making his Norman 
conquest, which culminated in the battle of Hastings, where 
Battle Abbey now stands, commemorating that event. 

Julie and I enjoyed the view from the ramparts, as did the 
vSentinels of old. We saw the old draw-bridge, which had car- 
ried the feet of a proud race, the corsleted knight, the cowled 
monk, the peasant and the prince. 

THE CONFLICT. 

Hark! The still air resounds with clash of arms, 

And foemen yell in midst of war’s alarms. 

The moat engulfs the wounded, drowning men, 

And repulsed besiegers rally again. 

Armored warriors rush in wild career 
To ramparts, with the battle-ax and spear. 

The goal of the swift but deadly arrow 
Is battlement broad and loophole narrow; 

Flying missiles from arquebus and sling, 

Into their midst a frightful mission bring. 

Crushing the pennon,— tearing the banner 



The Count de Latour. 


81 


Of Arques’ proud chief, the lord of the manor. 

Undaunted stood he on his castle wall, 

In answer to besiegers’ challenge call. 

Thick was the melee at sally-port gate, 

Escutcheon and lance in a battered state, 

Rallied once more after repulsive shock, 

To be beaten to earth with lumps of rock. 

The fierce invective of warfare’s turmoil 
Was silenced forever with boiling oil. 

By dint of courage, the battle was keen; 

Deadly the glint of its glittering sheen. 

Bold knights, they sallied in battle array; 

No dastard was there on that awful day. 

Each combatant wielded a fatal blow, 

Leaving antagonist in deadly throe. 

To cleave the morion was a knightly task, 

Down to the earth went plume and shining casqus. 

Under corselet throbbed life’s flickering spark 
Of the brave Normans, the vassals of Arques. 

The large courtyard was overgrown with shrubbery, and 
every kind of wild flower; here and there an oak protruded from 
between massive masonry. The trunks of old trees tvere cov- 
ered with spreading ivy, and from the bark oozed the pith of 
ages. 

Near the barbican were rusty horizontal iron bars, whose 
chains were gone, having corroded away. We imagined the 
voice still sounding ominously through the castle walls, at the 
fall of the hour: “Hung in chains,” as a warning to mutineers 
and deserters. 

Within that gate — whose portcullis had cut off many a 
hope cherished by the poor captive — was a huge flat stone, level 
with the ground, suggesting a block, an ax and a masked execu- 
tioner. This stone was white, no lichen or moss grew near it, 
for it had been washed in human blood, and was sacred to those 
w r ho had suffered there. 

The warder did not come to us dressed in armor, carrying a 
halberd. He issued from his rooms in the tower above the 
castle gate, the walls of which were seven feet thick. We found 
‘him an ordinary and polite Frenchman. 

“I have received a letter from the Prefect,” he said, 
“ordering me to place this castle at the young lady’s disposal. 
I am at your service, Mademoiselle.” 


82 


The Count de Latour. 


“I have accompanied her from Dieppe, and am also at her 
service,” I remarked. 

“The letter said nothing about you, sir.” 

“I dare say not, but you can have faith in my silence, as 
the young lady is my special friend, and I deemed it my duty 
to be with her.” 

“If Mademoiselle has no objection, she will please tell me 
what she wants with this castle. ’ ’ 

Julie was glad to think she had become of some import- 
ance, and smiled at the 
idea of doing whatever 
she liked with that pon- 
derous pile of masonry. 

“All we require, sir,” 
she answered in dreamy 
delight, “is todig under 
the door of the keep.” 

The custodian was as- 
tonished. He had ex- 
pected her to make 
drawings or plans of 
the castle. It never en- 
tered his mind about 
digging, that was man’s 
work, and what a lady 
wanted by digging, he 
could not conjecture and 
stood in a deep study. 
“Do you understand 

The River Arques me?” she asked. 

“Yes, Mademoiselle.* 

“Then I suppose we may begin at once if you have no objec- 
tion.” 

We followed him to the keep. The door was small and 
round at the top, there were weeds growing near it, and some 
bushes almost covering the rotting panels. The hinges and 
bolts had disappeared long ago. 

We dug up the growth, and came to sandy soil; then we 
struck our “treasure trove, ” something hard which grated upon 
the spade, and we all became excited. 



The Count de Latour. 


83 


Under such circumstances, it was natural to bo excited. 
Our minds conjured up all sorts of fantastic impossibilities. 
How different we were! Our surroundings in life make us 
what we are, our future will be the result of what we were. 
The janitor expected to see a box of coins. Julie looked for an 
object that had been stolen, which would exonerate her father. 
I thought a skeleton would be unearthed, holding a document. 
We all were disappointed; nothing of that kind came to light. 

Our first discovery was a broken casque, punctured with 
holes, recording an obscure sentence in a forgotten tongue; but 
the Roman capital “D” was plain. The next object was a grue- 
some gallipot with a marking on it like a cross. The last was 
the frontal half of a tiara, on which was a symbol, the writhing 
snake. 

We carried those three objects home, and Julie placed them 
in the hands of her mother, who sent 
them, by orders, to the curator of the 
Cluny museum. 

When the season was over, we re- 
turned to Paris and worked in the 
studio. 

John Craggs and the Prince ar- 
rived, to receive a hearty welcome 
from us. 

Julie’s mother was very kind to 
me, she had become reserved and much 
changed from her former self. She was 
happy when the Prince surprised her 
by presenting her husband to her. The “The Poor captive.” 

Count de Latour was glad to meet us all after his exile in the 
Ottoman Empire. 

John Craggs, confiding -in me, related all about his search 
for the chaplet; how he had changed his name, completely de- 
ceiving his mother-in-law, Irene Morin, who knew him not, for 
his beard and his pseudonym hid his identity. He was the 
mythical John Brooks. 

The archbishop of Paris notified us of the golden chaplet 
being placed in the precincts of Notre Dame Cathedral, by the 
earnest request of the Prince, who regarded it as a sacred relic. 

We were pleased to have a vacancy in the studio filled by 



84 


The Count de Latour. 


the young lady from Dieppe, Mile. Clare Beauharnais, who 
came to study the higher branches of art, and I saw with pleas- 
urable surprise that she took a liking for the company of Henry 
Craggs. He, in return, was so affable towards her that I could 
scarcely believe my own eyes. 

Had they met before? Was there an unfathomable affinity 
between them? Did predestination play a part? Are male and 
female parts of humanity one soul when joined for no one to 
put asunder? Is dual nature a unit? Such puzzling queries as 
these arose to trouble me. 

The Count and Countess de Latour had a fine sense of the 
beautiful. We worked often under their suggestions. None of 



Julie and I enjoyed the View. 

us felt rude enough to ask the Count his real name, we sup- 
posed the real Count dead; and continued to address him as 
hitherto, always by the title of “Count,” and the surname he 
had unwittingly assumed in his childhood. 

We were invited to examine the chaplet in the Cathedral, 
and felt tranquil on entering that edifice. The vastness of the 
structure filled us with reverence and awe, but I was not pre- 
pared for what happened there. 

Merciful heaven! how can I tell it! My tongue is para- 
lyzed for words expressive enough to convey a terrible mean- 
ing. Truth is stranger than fiction, it was overwhelming to my 
senses. It gave me such a feeling that I would have gladly lain 
drone upon the floor and died. I had expected a happy sequel 


The Count de Latour. 


85 


in the consummation of peaceful marriage. But, alas! the nar- 
rator of the future must be heard. 

The Prince and Sandra Coitus led us to the case wherein 
lay the chaplet; it was a beautiful piece of work and bright was 
the gold. 

Mademoiselle Beauharnais began to weep bitter tears; why, 
I could not tell, and when she handled the chaplet, her grief 
knew no bounds. 

4 ‘Please, Mademoiselle,” said I beseechingly, ‘‘calm your- 
self, we are your good friends.” y 

The Prince did an unusual thing. He held the hand of 
Henry Graggs tightly, and with an affable smile, placed the 
chaplet in his other hand. 


“There He was in Many Forms.” 

Poor Henry began to shudder, his face became pallid, he 
shook like a strangling man; letting fall the chaplet, he fainted 
in the arms of Sandra Coitus. 

“It is all over,” said the Prince, smiling. 

“What is all over?” I demanded, aghast. 

“The ordeal. He is his mother's son.” 

“Why did you torment him in that way?” 

“Duty to humanity at large,” he answered. 

“He never deserved this at your hands.” 

“No, but he is a propitiation.” 

“For what?” 

“The sins of his progenitors and posterity.” 

“Will you allow me to hold the chaplet?” 



86 


The Count de Latour. 


u Yes, do so.” 

And when I held the gold in my hand, I had visions; and 
felt all over as though an electric shock had gone through me, 
permeating every tissue of my body, and horror! 1 saw Henry 
through it all. There he was in many forms, suffering many 
agonies. 

When I recovered, I found that the Prince had taken the 
chaplet from me. 

The picture painted at the garbage heap came to my mind. 
Was inspiration perverse in that instance? Was the picture 
the imprint of his soul? Did art cease to be a divine gift at 
that moment? Was he swayed by mortal thoughts or en- 
shrouded with the errors of mortality, which lured him like an 
ignis fatuus to his destruction; that power of evil which crushes 
mankind, brought on by himself? Like the Hebrew Bard, who 
swept his lyre with saddening strains about mortal existence: 

“As for man, his days are as the grass; 

Like the flower of the field, so he flourisheth, 

For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone, 

And the place thereof shall know it no more.” 

Oh! That a greater Hope could have arisen in his heart, 
removing him from mortal matter, as the Psalmist again sung: 

“As for me, I will hold Thy face in righteousness; 

I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy likeness, 

For with Thee is the fountain of Life; 

In Thy light shall we see light.” 

Genius has spontaneity of action, which sometimes swoops 
like an eagle upon its victim. In the case of Henry Craggs it 
was burdensome. Time only will show whether it will be for 
weal or for woe. 


narrmi 



Chapter XIV. The Rameses and the Cards. 

E received kind invitations to America. 
Henry Craggs and I prepared to work 
there, and I thought the trip would he 
beneficial. We left our friends in Paris, 
with the understanding that upon our 
return, Julie and Mile. Beauharnais 
would have their trousseaus ready. 

We stayed in London for a few days, 
for the purpose of drawing objects in 
the British Museum. 

As I was inspecting the relics in the 
Assyrian Court, after transferring the 
script of Sennacherib to paper, a stranger accosted me. He 
was a Frenchman, past middle age, who had just returned from 
the war in Tonquin. He grasped my hand cordially, and 
pointed mysteriously to the colossal head of Rameses II. He 
took off his hat and I caught his meaning. His features were 
remarkably like those of that great Pharoah. 

We wandered over the building, and when we came to the 
Roman antiquities, I fancied that I saw a blush come over his 
countenance as we stood before the bust of Nero. 

I was puzzled at his familiarity, and could not tell why he 
kept so close to me, a stranger. 

At last he took my hand, peering into my face, said his 
name was Captain Adolphe Morin, and added, “Thou art the 
man and the brother,” which unnerved me, making me think he 
was crazy, especially when he murmured to himself in a lan- 
guage I had never heard spoken. 

He was quite rational outside the building, and told me 
about his campaign. He seemed to breathe more freely and wa 
a different man. The metamorphosis was so striking that I 



88 


The Count de Latour. 


expressed surprise. He took no notice, but told me that he 
would see me again before his furlough was up, and bid me 

adieu jusqu* au revoir. 

I had hoped to get rid of such annoyances and to follow my 
art in peace, but I was disappointed. 

We arrived in Boston. I took up my abode on Common- 
wealth Avenue, and Henry went to Cambridge. 

“Now he will be all right,” I said to myself confidently. 
“New faces and plenty to divert his attention. He will have no 
more morbid fancies while living upon this land of virgin soil, 
where the Indian is fast disappearing, yet a vivid picture re- 
mains, as he comes to visit his old haunts. To-day he is but a 
living statue on the border of civilization.” 

I went to see Henry and found him walking in the park, 
and gazing upon the ground. 

“What is the matter, I hope you are 
well?” 

“I wish I could be well. I feel the 
Prince’s influence over me, and regret having 
gone to the reception in London, coming in 
contact with his bad influence.” 

“He is not a bad man,” I said, soothingly. 
“Not in a worldly sense, yet his whole 
being is so antagonistic to mine that I could 
„ send him back to his own land of Bharata 
without any compunction.” 

The next time I went to Cambridge, I saw him in close con- 
versation with an elderly man, who, it seems, had passed his 
life at Monte Carlo and Baden Baden in the gambling halls. 
He was a physical wreck, and had saved enough of his winnings 
to live comfortably. They were sitting at a small table under 
the trees, and I was surprised to see a pack of cards, and the 
embarrassment of Henry at which the old man grinned. 

“This is too exciting for you, Henry,” I said, candidly, 
“you forget this is what ruined the Count.” 

“We are only having a quiet game,” he answered, “it 
occupies my mind and I forget everything else, you see, it is 
absorbing and my interest in the game brings all my faculties 
to bear upon it. It is a diversion from painting, and I like it.” 

The cards were laid aside, and we talked together upon. 



The Count de Latour. 


89 


general topics. I had the opportunity of observing in his oppo- 
nent, a look of avarice which was depicted on his countenance, 
greed reflected in his keen eye. I noticed, also, that Henry be- 
came uneasy about the neck, for he wore high collars again. I 
saw him occasionally put his hand there and knit his brow. I 
knew too well what that meant. Was there retrogression? He 
had come unscathed from the mysterious ordeal of the Prince, 
and I was grieved to think that its reaction was so hurtful, and 
I became alarmed. 

As I was working in my studio in Boston, the living 
Rameses, I had met in the Museum, came to see me. 

“I am now pensioned from the army,” he said sans cere- 
monie , “and have followed you to America, in order to break 
the spell which is over you and to prevent a mesalliance.” 

“There is no spell over me.” 



i 


“Sitting at a Small Table.” 

“You and Julie de Latour are absorbed in the hypnotic 
dictum of the Prince.” 

“We are happy in it, anyway.” 

“That is only ephemeral joy, what you desire is a marriage 
which will endure through eternity.” 

“We are only mortal,” I objected. 

“No, we are spirit and immortal.” 

“Do not destroy our happiness,” I pleaded. 

“I would rather make it more lasting. I failed myself 
twice. I want to say that I have a distant relative by marriage 
here, who is born to suffer, and you have seen him.” 


90 


The Count de Latour. 


“Have I?” I inquired, doubtfully. 

“Yes, and I have crossed the Atlantic to prevent an assas- 
sin’s hand from dealing a deadly blow.” 

“I hope you can do so.” 

“I have discovered my impotency, and ask you to do it, if 
it is not too late. Thou art the man and the brother.” 

He went away, leaving me in a dreadful 
state of anxiety. I concluded he was acting 
a foolish part in following me to America. 
I could not get any information from him, 
beyond the vague theory of everlasting love. 

I went to Cambridge again, and I saw 
the old gambler enter his home; he seemed 
Boston. to be happy, and his contented look showed 

that he had won the stakes, as he politely raised his hat in 
acknowledging my bow. 

Henry Graggs was unusually nervous; the evil was upon him, 
the same evil that I had seen at Dieppe. He tried to remain calm. 

“You are not well,” I said to him, kindly. 

“Yes, I am,” he answered, shortly, 
looking abstractedly upon the ground. 

“What is troubling you?” I asked. 

“Money! money!” he answered, 
vehemently. 

“How absurd! You have more 
than you can use. How much do you 
want?” 

He relapsed into silence and did 
not answer me. A gambling demon con- 
trolled him, for I knew that he did not 
require money; it was always at our 
command. I could not understand that 
new phase of his disease. It was so de- “Another oid Man.” 
pressing that I was unwilling to leave him alone. 

Boston was in a turmoil the next day. The echoes of turbu- 
lence resounded throughout the city. Hue and cry was raised 
because a man had been killed and robbed in the classic suburb 
of Cambridge, near Harvard University and within a stone’s 
throw of Longfellow’s tomb. Excitement ran high; the police 
sought in vain for the murderer. 




The Count de Latour. 


91 


Henry Graggs was taciturn and moody when I mentioned 
the circumstance to him. 

“The poor old gentleman is gone now,” he said, reflectively; 
“his troubles are over.” 

“Did you ever see him ?” 

“That was he who played with me to win.” 

“Indeed! you seemed to have been on good terms with 
him. ” 

“Yes, we were friends, but he had luck on his side.” 

“I believe he was an old hand at the game,” I further 
remarked. 

4 ‘I did not care about losing money,” said Henry, with a broad 
smile, “but the fit came upon me; I felt bound to conquer him.” 

“Yet he was the victor,” I affirmed. 
“He is settled now, conquered at 
last.” 

Had Henry not been in tears at 
that moment, I would have thought him 
a very unfeeling man, to speak in that 
way of his departed friend. He gave 
vent do his grief freely and his loving 
heart was sorrowful. 

The inquest brought to light the 
fact that a Frenchman had been seen 
with the deceased, and that Professor 
Craggs had played at cards with him 
the previous evening. 

I wondered if it was the same Frenchman who had come to 
see me. He hinted at foul play, desiring to prevent it. 

I met him early the next day on Boston Common. 

4 The deed is done; we are too late,” he said, with sudden 
excitement, 11 4 and they never will find the murderer. 

4 4 You seem to know who he is,” I said, horrified. 

“I know him well. He is clothed with the impenetrable 
armor of a secret oath, and not responsible for his acts. 

“You surprise me,” I said; “he cannot escape justice. 
Search is being made all over the country for him.” 

4 They are seeking a myth,” he passionately answered. 

“No, sir,” I said, angrily, “flesh and blood dealt the blow; 
you cannot condone such a crime.” 




92 


The Count de Latour. 


“Controlled by the will of heaven,” was his reflective 
remark. 

“That cannot be. Heaven does not sanction murder.” 

He changed the subject at once by asking when I expected 
to return to Europe. 

He left me, and I aver that he never committed the deed, 
although there was a strong suspicion attached to him. He was 
wary in giving a hint as to who the guilty one was. I could 
have mentioned this to the authorities, and had him arrested as 
an accomplice. Although he was slightly deranged, I knew 
well he was not the man to do such an awful deed. 

I pondered over his words and recalled the card table, 
with Henry and the old man sitting there. Then, that in- 
cident flashed before me, when the Usher of Lynn stoned 
another old man, 

“Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 

And one with a heavy stone.” 

I was ashamed of myself a moment after. How base was 
my soul to even imagine it! My dear, kind friend to be 
thought of in such a connection. Perish the thought and crush 
the horrid question which came to me. 

Was it a dream, or another case like that of Eugene 
Aram ? 






Chapter XV. The Christian and the Parent. 

E left Boston and went to London. We 
knelt in St. Paul’s cathedral; the litany 
was read, and we prayed fervently, repeat- 
ing the responses with supplicating hearts. 
“From battle, murder and sudden death, 
good Lord deliver us.” We partook of 
the holy eucharist, and I really felt the 
good Lord would guide our footsteps 
aright and direct our thoughts heaven- 
ward. 

Henry Craggs was a sincere and de- 
vout Christian; truthful and honest, but unmercifully tortured 
by dreams. As long as they were only dreams, there w T as little 
room for uneasiness, and I hoped that Mademoiselle Beauhar- 
nais would eventually dispel them. 

Out of her ‘sight, he was troubled; in her presence, he was 
calm and contented. I owe that lady a humble apology for 
taking him away with me to Boston, but he would go; nothing 
could have prevented him. He had been a little headstrong in 
this. I agreed, thinking the change would benefit him. It made 
him w T orse, and I blamed myself very much indeed. 

Arriving in Paris, we found our friends well but anxious. 
The ladies gave a reception in our honor, and we were royally 
entertained. 

My friend appeared to be more cheerful. The atmosphere 
of Paris suited him; his peculiar make-up could not adjust itself 
to American soil. It did not affect me, I felt myself the same 
being wherever I was. My blood was of Celtic origin, and my 
temperament was a trifle phlegmatic. He had Gaul blood in. 
his veins, making him uneasy on western soil, being difficult of 
acclimatization, as it is the Anglo-Saxon race which predomi- 
nates in America. 



94 


The Count de Latour. 


“We are in search of a French officer from Tonquin,” said 
the Prince to me. 

“I met him,” I answered, wonderingly. “He accosted me 
in London, and pointed to Rameses II. showing me his own 
profile, which was wonderfully like that of the monolith.” 

“He conversed with you, I suppose.” 

“Yes; he said, ‘Thou art the man and the brother.’ ” 

“That is the gentleman we want. He is the real Count de 
Latour, but is silent. He thinks ‘silence is golden.’ He loves 
Julie and her parents. He is silent on their account, and will 
not claim his rights.” 

“He is a strange character.” 

“Very; the pernicious influence and example of his foster- 
mother, Irene Morin, made him into a 
misanthrope, although a Count by birth. 
He is only a changeling, who allowed 
himself to come under her powerful 
will, which was so dominant that it 
swayed him in its influence. She labored 
as a mother for her own son, Count 
Auguste de Latour, whose secret she 
kept so well, causing Captain Morin to 
make a codicil in favor of his two daugh- 
ters, appointing the Count sole executor, 
who shamefully abused the trust. Cap- 
tain Morin’s antipathy to the fair sex 
was fostered by Irene, causing his mat- 
rimonial estrangements, and a false re- 
port of his death to be circulated in order to shield the Count 
from law. The De Latour and La Rouge families are bound to 
meet. I think the Captain has more good qualities than the 
Count, who seems to inherit all the bad ones.” 

“Captain Morin is generous.” 

“That is so. He would rather suffer any misery than bring 
trouble to others, but he has two sides to his nature.” 

“What is the other side?” 

“Ah! he married twice and left both wives. He is now 
seeking what he absurdly calls his affinity. ’ ’ 

“He spoke to me about it, saying he had twice tried to find 
eternal bliss.” 



“From Battle, Murder and 
Sudden Death.” 


The Count de Latour. 


95 


“The man is almost a maniac, and ought to be confined in 
Charenton asylum. That is what we want him for, to prevent 
mischief. Yet, you never will find a nobler man. He heartily 
repents of treating his wives that way, and is ready to make 
restitution. We are going to try and have him reconciled to his 
second wife. If unsuccessful, away he must go to Charenton.” 

. A cold sweat came over me, as I brought to mind that 
affair at Boston. Could this madman have committed the mur- 
der, after all? In his insane moments he might have done so. 
On the other hand, he was a gentleman by birth, and a rational 
being with feelings of affection towards his fellow men. 

“His wife and daughter are in Paris,” continued the Prince. 
“They are superior to him in the sense of right and justice. 
How truly wonderful does the divine Artificer of our being 
work. They are women who can raise him up to their stand- 
ard, and lift him from the vortex of degraded imbecility into 
which he has fallen.” 

Miles. Claire Beauharnais and Julie de Latour were leaders 
in the art circles of Paris. They drew kindred natures toward 
them. There was the divine beauty of woman shown in their 
perfect command of themselves. They were members of the 
august society, whose virtues were as high as their rare and 
exceptional talents. 

Women never can be degraded. They are eternally high in 
the arcana of angelic presence, under the most touching circum- 
stances. The cowardly insults of brutal men, of which we read 
in history, could never drive out the spark of that womanhood, 
intelligent and wondrously virtuous as it is. Man bows to it as 
a superior force. 

“Prince,” I said, “you did wrong in ordering Julie to the 
Chateau d’ Arques.” ' 

“She knew that I was laboring in the interests of the fam- 
ily.” answered the Prince, “I had already proved that to her.” 

“We, as gentlemen, cannot indulge in commanding a lady 
in that abrupt way. You should have asked it as a favor.” 

“I humbly respect your admonition; pray forgive me. 
You are right, but in India we men order the women in that 
way, and I wish to ameliorate their condition if I pan do so. 
But somehow I fall into the rude, unmanly way of my forbears, 
without knowing it.” 


96 


The Count de Latour. 


“Women are slaves there, are they not 

“Very much so, a fact which I deplore,” was his reply. 

Christian influence was felt in the East, and progress 
made. Women were rising from thraldom to be equal with 
men — they always were. A noble spirit was entering the Prince 
— one of tolerance and charity. His old religion was being 
trodden under foot — pernicious, hurtful and meaningless was 
Buddhism to him. 

There stood that man trying to act the part of a Christian 
on behalf of women. What grandeur was there displayed! 
That heathen potentate, bringing his God-given faculties into a 
proper direction. 

I know he had made us to do strange things. What of it? 
It was a means to a great end. The 
scientific means of his occult mind, of 
which none of us knew anything about, 
nor did we want to know the means he 
took to send us on such errands. 

Madame de Latour came in, bring- 
ing with her a lady of rare refinement. 

“This is my sister, Madame Morin,’’ 
she said, introducing us. 

“1 had the pleasure of meeting Cap- 
tain Morin, your husband,” I said, com- 
posedly. 

“I am so glad. I hope he did not 
annoy you.” “In the name of Justice and 

“No, Madame, he was affable and kind to me.*” 

“My sister, Madame Morin is also from Algeria,” said 
Madame de Latour; “her daughter and granddaughter are here 
also.” 



k Tt must be pleasant for you to meet again, and I shall be 
pleased to see Captain Morin with you.” 

At that moment a little girl came tripping in, calling 
“grandma.” 

I was surprised. She was the child of the mission. Ma- 
dame de Latour, Julie and this child were very much alike. 
No wonder I had been amazed that Sunday. 

Miles. Beauharnais and J ulie entered. Before me sat a 
magnificent galaxy of female beauty. The presencoof those 


The Count de Latour. 


97 


fair goddesses, so marked in their superior intelligence, was far 
beyond the reach of a poor mortal like me. 

Nor can my pencil ever trace the lineaments of the index 
of each soul. Every face shone resplendently with the pres- 
ence of sympathy and love. The subtle curves of the smiling 
face, the cultured glance and the delicately chiseled feature 
uttered the silent language of immortal love. Graceful poses 
accompanied every movement. Each lady was endowed by 
nature with a queenly deportment. The purity of their com- 
plexions was transparent with the vital principle of soul, the 
antithesis of voluptuous vulgarity. Each lady appeared to be a 
separate type of beauty. My discerning eye saw into the beau- 
teous depth, only to rebound in chagrin to find that such loveli- 
ness could not be reproduced by brush and pigment. Only a 
faint suggestion of their exquisite beauty could be placed upon 
canvas. 

I am only a scribe or translator, and cannot find language 
to reduce their fine thoughts and feelings to writing. 

A great denouement took place. Captain Morin, the grand- 
father of the sweet child, entered with another lady, escorted 
by Sandra Coitus. There was a happy meeting, and we .w^re 
overjoyed to see the Captain so changed for the better. 

They belonged to the Catholic church. Its benign influence 
had brought the Captain to a sense of justice. 

Madame Morin introduced us to the lady. It was her 
daughter, Mabel. She had come fronMdonstantinople also, and 
was the mother of the little girl. 

Henry Craggs and I joined them in their happiness. There 
was no social difference in that happy reunion. Catholics, 
Protestants and Buddhists bowed together to the inscrutable 
wisdom of God. We were one in thought, deed and action. 

We knew that the dust would claim the mortal part of us, 
and our memory would be a poor monument for the coming 
generation. When we ascend to our mansions on high we can 
take our spiritual bodies onward, but in the dust is the ending 
of all the glory of the world. 

The chains of Buddhism fell from the loins of the Prince 
and Sandra Coitus. They became Christians, teaching the gos- 
pel of deeds, worthy of the saints of old. 

The shackles of error held them no longer, and women were 


98 


The Count de Latour. 


raised to their pedestals of virtue, their proper spheres, making 
a shrine for man to worship, and we worship them as the noblest 
works of God. 

With honesty of purpose, guided by the moral law, under 
strict adherence to divine law, knowing what befalls us who 
sin or commit crime in any way, this tale is written. To bat- 
tle against sin is the work of all. Strenuous resistance against 
evil is worthy. We help each other to overcome the evils of 
the flesh. 

The parchment and the papyrus in my possession tend to 
solve the mystery of heredity, and I willingly give them to 
those who are generous enough to see that they depict Truth as 
we understand it from tradition. From that Truth — however 
terrible it may have been — we build an immense superstructure 
of Christianity. Our sympathies are more aroused for the 
unfortunate around us. We put on fresh armor and hold the 
Cross higher, never allowing the hereditary evils of bygone ages 
to crush us. From the perusal of these writings the reader 
will emerge from lethargy and plant anew his standard safely 
for the elevation of mankind in the name of Justice and Mercy. 




Sic transit gloria munbt 



Chapter XVI. Narrative of Henry Craggs. 

Y mother always said there was a secret in 
the family on her mother’s side. She 
troubled herself very much about that 
birthmark on my neck. It was a half- 
circle round my neck, which I covered 
with my collar. 

I am reciting this at the request of 
the Chief of Police, Scotland Yard, who 
is under instruction from the present cab- 
inet to get my history. I am to keep 
nothing back in assisting this investiga- 
tion. 

As a living witness, my experiences are considered valu- 
able, providing I speak plainly, and in such language that will 
admit of no misunderstanding or discrepancy. I will start from 
the period of my childhood. 

From the moment I could remember or notice anything, I 
found my parents unduly secretive. They were guarded in 
what they said and did before me, their only living ^on. I say 
‘diving” advisedly, for I knew that I had a brother somewhere, 
and that he was connected with something serious and grave. 

My mother was a foreigner. She carried French blood in 
her veins, which she tried to hide. My father was always sad 
at heart about something, but he was a very respectable Eng- 
lishman. He was so thoroughly English that he often referred 
to the ascendants of his family as being savants and politicians 
of no mean order, but some of them were instigators of crime, 
whose misdeeds were laid bare by Lord Mahon in the year 1720. 
When Secretary of State, James Craggs and his father, the 
Postmaster-General, were arraigned for participating in the 
“South Sea Bubble.” 

In my boyhood days a stranger called, named Sandra Coi- 
tus. He was from the East Indies. I was sent at once to play 



100 


The Count de Latour . 


in the adjoining room. Inquisitiveness overcame my good man- 
ners, and my little ear caught their conversation: 

“The brotherhood of Mahatmas have arranged their elixir,” 
said the man to my mother, “and the boy will be as pure as an 
angel. ” 

“Do not hurt him, I beg of you,” was my mother’s reply. 
“Let the sacrifice be painless, heaven knows I have suffered.” 

“Blood for blood is Scriptural,” said he, “and crime must 
be wiped out by this atonement.” 

“I suffer for the folly of others,” sadly said my mother. 

“Yes, madam,” he answered, “the boy will feel nothing, 
and what is more to the purpose, he will hurl it back to oblivion, 
and the blood, the evil blood, will be purified forever.” 

“Be it so,” remarked my mother, in pious gratitude, “my 
parents and his parents were stained. On them hung this mill- 
stone, and my own boy is also 
marked with Retribution’s in- 
delible finger.” 

“Ours is the true mode of 
reversing sin,” continued the 
stranger. “Cain’s mark and 
Adam’s error will be blotted 
out, and children will never 
again suffer unjust punishment. 

Osiris, Vishnu and Isis, have 
taught a pure resurrection from this earth-plane— an immediate 
ascent into the astral body of self, or the ego. Christ gave 
Himself in order to atone for the sins of the world. His sacri- 
fice blotted out venial sin. The believer and penitent become 
whiter than snow.” 

“And we are but obeying Him by following His example,” 
added my mother with a tone of resignation. 

“Exactly so,” acquiesed the stranger. “Our new interpre- 
tation needs skilful manipulation at our hands, and we consider 
you a woman above women. A rich reward awaits you.” 

The above is all I can remember of their conversation. 
What it meant I know not to this day, nor can I conjecture any 
motive on my mother’s part for talking so strangely to that 
copper-colored man. She was a great Bible reader. That Book 
was ever before her, and she road and prayed piously. 




The Count de Latour. 


101 


I, who am giving you my autobiography, do not desire to 
cast any reflection on the memory of my mother. She lies in 
the quiet churchyard of Ripon, in Yorkshire, and departed 
happy in the faith of the Church of England (Episcopalian), 
confiding faithfully in her Savior, and I say that as heaven is 
composed of all the virtues, my mother is taking part in joyful 
songs of praise there to-day. No one can deny me the happy 
conviction that she is one of God’s chosen people. 

My playground was Studley Park, where stands the noble 
ruins of Fountains Abbey. At its shrine I was wont to conjure 
up the church’s processions of the past. The consistory, the 
nave, the cloisters and the sacristy still exist. The iron hand of 
Cromwell left a remnant only of this famous edifice, yet there 
was sufficient for me to ponder over, and I passed my years of 
adolescence in the shadow of its walls. 

My mother often chided me when 1 
returned home with some relic of the past. 
I was continually picking and chopping 
away at the fallen masonry. I was a 
precocious iconoclast, which led me into 
trouble time and again. 

As I grew older my depredations in 
this direction were of a gigantic scale. I 
had the curiosity to see further into the 
vaults of the Abbey. I was not content 
to see what every visitor saw, but wished 
“Founa the outline of a to make deeper research among the pic- 
Hand - ’ turesque ruins. 

As I was doing so, the man from the East Indies joined me. 

4k You seem to be quite an explorer,” he said to me in a 
pleasant way, “perhaps I can assist you in raising those slabs.” 

“I am afraid the keepers of the grounds will object if they 
see us,” I answered, feeling that the stranger’s presence would 
arouse suspicion, and trouble might ensue. 

“They certainly would object,” said he, “but they would 
suspect nothing, I am sure. I will appear to be your friend, 
and they know you as an upright boy. 

“It would be quite a risk,” I ventured, remembering my 
mother’s admonition not to touch anything about the Abbey, 
“and I should not like to incur the displeasure of the keepers.’ 



102 


The Count de Latour. 


He looked at me sharply. His dark, eagle-like eyes, on 
meeting mine, caused the blood to suffuse my face. He kept 
those eyes upon me in a way I did not like for a few moments, 
then he walked slowly to the eastern end of the Abbey. I 
watched him as he entered the chancel. He put his hand to his 
brow on arriving at the spot where the altar had stood, and I 
was stricken with fear. 

Perfect silence reigned over the place. Even the birds 
ceased warbling. - The quietude was broken only by the flutter 


of a decaying leaf over- 
head, and at rare inter- 
vals by the shrill note 
of a solitary curlew, or 


the bark of a distant 
hill-fox. 

The dark visage of 
the Hindoo seemed out 
of place; too great was 
the contrast. A sacred 
edifice, consecrated by 
the divine order of Apos- 
tolic succession, with a 
heathen standing upon 
its holy ground. 

I saw him search 
the marbled floor, where 
here and there grew a 
buttercup and a daisy. 

He drew a writing-tab- 
let from his pocket and 
peered upon its page, 

and with a look of satisfaction, beckoned me to him, and I 
moved not. He paused, and smilingly beckoned me again with 
his finger. Finding me irrepressible, he came quickly toward 
me, and as he approached I felt the counteracting influence of 
his baneful presence. A hostile atmosphere enveloped me. 

“Kindly assist me to raise this slab,” he said, “it is heavier 
than I can lift.” 

I was about to decline, but my tongue refused its office for 
the first time in my life, and I involuntarily followed him as he 



Home of Henry Craggs. 



The Count de Latour. 


103 


retraced his steps to the chancel. I looked upon the slab just 
behind where the altar rail had stood. He pointed to markings 
upon it, cabalistic or demotic writing, of which he took a copy. 
There were also a few lines in Latin: 

THE EMPTY TOMB. 

“Stranger dear, whence came you here? 

And whither wilt thou go? 

Shades of the living dead are near — 

Not in the earth below. 

This tomb is but an empty space, 

Built on God’s sftcred ground. 

Progressive is the human race; 

No deathly state is found. 

God’s holy acre flourisheth, 

The harvest at His call. 

’Tis dust to dust that nourisheth 
The ivy on the wall. 

Be silent in the Abbey’s nave, 

Where solemn accents fell 

In mournful dirge, at open grave, 

Which vanquished death and hell. 

Our God is good and will forgive 
The penitent his crime, 

With Him forever he will live 
To break the scythe of Time.” 

We succeeded in raising the marble on end and found more 
writing underneath, with the addition of a rude carving repre- 
senting a hand holding a crescent. There were also what 
seemed to be more modern carving in the form of Roman capi- 
tals, the letters U L. D.,” surmounted by crosses, of which the 
stranger took a copy. 

After replacing the slab, we turned towards Ripon and 
wandered our way home, to find my parents wondering what 
had become of me. They were much surprised to see me with 
the Hindoo, whom they did not then expect. 

He joined us at tea (five o’clock meal), and in the evening 
my father and I went to vespers in the cathedral. I noticed 
his demeanor that evening. He chanted the responses with a 
sincere heart, asking the Lord to have mercy upon him. I 


104 


The Count de Latour. 


could see that he was agitated, and felt his hand tremble as it 
rested on my head when he said to me: “God bless you, my 
son Henry.” 

The Hindoo went away. I never heard one word of his 
conversation with my mother that visit, and I wondered if he 
repeated the same rigmarole as he did before, or had any new 
ideas to ventilate. 

It is unnecessary to mention my school days, as they have 
no bearing on the matter at issue. But when I came of age, 
a profession was talked of. 

“There is only one business in which you can engage,” my 
mother said to me. “For our sakes you must not refuse, and 
it concerns many persons that you strictly do your parents’ 
bidding. ’ ’ 

“My efforts have always been used to please you and 
father. That is all I live for, to requite those kindnesses 
which you have shown me from time to 
time, and I cannot imagine why you ex- 
pect a refusal on my part.” 

“Well spoken, dear boy,” she said, 
quite pleased. 

“I suppose you want me near you,” I 
continued, “by making me a forester and 
woodman on his Lordship’s estate (Lord 
Ripon), with the hope of becoming his 
steward.” 

“Your inclinations run directly opposite to what you are 
to become,” she answered, placing her arm lovingly around my 
neck. “You must study art.” 

My astonishment, you can easily imagine, was great. All 
I knew of this study was by rule and compass, and my tasks 
had been in the lines of logorithms and trigonometry. I had 
learned that art required a special gift enjoyed by few. 

My parents were practical and humble people. The pro- 
posal struck me as being exceedingly ludicrous. They had said 
that true worth was its own guerdon, and that I had always to 
be thankful for the place to which God had called me, never 
allowing any sort of ambition to conquer my humility. 

“My dear mother,” I exclaimed, “when and where did you 
cultivate a taste for art? I scarcely know what it means.” 



The Count de Latour . 


105 


u The time is not at hand for you to know, dear Henry,” 
faltered my mother, wiping a tear from her eye. 

“Have I hurt you, mother?” 1 asked, quite alarmed. “It 
was far from my intention, and I will do your bidding at once 
by going to the Close Library to read up on the subject. ” 

I did so, and my parents were pleased beyond measure to 
see how readily I acceded to their wishes. Their hopes were 
centered in me, and as a churchman, duty and obedience were 
paramount, and 1 went to work, believing it was by the will of 
Providence. 

I worked assiduously at drawing, and was glad to have the 
advice of an amateur, Canon Grey, of the cathedral, who took 
some interest in me, only to find how weak I was in art. 

In his conversations with my parents he tried to change 
them from their pur- 
pose of making me into 
an artist. Nevertheless, 
we went sketching to- 
gether and I became a 
fair hand at drawing 
from nature. At the 
bottom of his heart he 
pitied me, yet he was a 
good and kind friend. 

That was why I went 
to London to study at studieyPark. 

the Kensington art 

school. My parents went with me, you remember, but the 
change was not healthful for them. They took ill and I 'nursed 
them. They were resigned in sickness, and their restfulness 
was broken by the unforseen appearance of the Hindoo. Like 
a sprite he came upon us, and I believed he had something to 
do with us not quite lawful. 

“You like your profession better than you did, I suppose?’ 
he asked me, after paying proper respect to my sick parents. 

“The more I labor the more I like it,” I answered, shortly. 

“I have arranged with Mr. Scott, your teacher, the line of 
art you are to pursue,” he said, “and where your easel is to be 
placed. ” 

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, in surprise, “lam grateful to you 



106 


The Count de Latour. 


for the interest you take in me, but may I ask if you had the 
consent of my parents to do so? ” 

“It is through my instrumentality you are there,” he 
answered, “your mother acted upon my advice.” 

I now regarded him with suspicion, and was reluctant to 
leave him at home alone with my parents. But at their request 
I went to my work at the school, and found my place removed 
in close proximity to your easel. On lifting the tissue paper 
from my drawing-board, I found the outline of a hand holding 
a half-circle. I shuddered. It instantly brought to mind the 
carving at the Abbey. I took it away and showed it to no one. 

You must pardon me when I say that my heart was 
troubled when that young lady came peering over our easels. 
You know to whom I refer. To my mind her eyes were like 
those of the Hindoo, and I dared not look at her. There was 
bitter feeling within me. I refrained from giving her any 
encouragement. She had the Hindoo’s habit of staring at a 
person. I felt that she and I were bitter enemies. 

Since love entered her heart, that stare has disappeared, 
and the cold hatred in my own heart has been chased away by 
the love I bear for your betrothed, Julie de Latour. That love 
is a lasting but platonic affection. How different she is. I 
pray to heaven that I too, may be otherwise than what I am. 

When I saw the right-hand glove upon the mantel-piece, I 
knew it to be too much like that drawing to make me comfort- 
able. It lay in the same position. Filled with the linen made 
it appear almost human, hence my anxiety to have it translated, 
especially when you said it was from the Prince, a countryman 
of the Hindoo. 

The end came. I was almost alone in the world. My dear 
mother succumbed to that illness and passed away peacefully. 
I had no reason to feel anything but the deepest and most heart- 
felt gratitude to the Hindoo. I had mistaken him, knowing 
not his motives. The funeral occurred at Ripon. Canon Grey 
officiated, and we all wept bitter tears on taking a last look at 
the mortal remains of mother. My father and I were scarcely 
able to bear the blow. 



Chapter XVII. Confession of Thomas Craggs. 

HAVE a very slight recollection of my 
parents. I was taken to India when but 
a mere child, and grew up in the light of 
ancient mysticism, and worked my way 
into the deep recesses of the temple, a 
neophite, a brother, and a full adept, 
living in the atmosphere of Karma (cause 
and effect), supposed to scintillate from 
Nirvana, my future heaven. I became a 
Seer, and had control of the souls of the subjects under the 
ruling of Prince Chandra Gupta, whose ancestors once pos- 
sessed a golden cup which he is now seeking. In proof thereof, 
he holds in his possession an original tablet of the embassy of 
Damaichus, the Greek. 

I was born and educated for this purpose, and in* case of 
failure, write this confession while I am on earth, as there are 
not yet established means of doing so after leaving it. 

Being in touch with the celestial cadences, my imagination 
took auricular form, and I heard voices sounding on the still air 
of the mountains — voices weird and uncommunicative, as the 
language was dead. To my mind they were human voices — 
unmistakably human — for there was misery in the echo of dis- 
cordant shrieks and doleful murmurs. These were the voices 
of the intermediate souls, still clinging to earthly sins, which 
held them down to our mundane influences. 

There was error in my blood, a crime dragging me to 
earth. I suffered pangs of pain from a mark upon my neck 
which seemed to cut me like a knife. Of course, this was all 
foolish imagination and had nothing to do with my spiritual 



108 


The Count cle Latour. 


progress. I know that God is just in every sense, and does not 
wish the innocent to suffer for the guilty. Yet, 1 foolishly 
allowed my mind to brood over this forgotten sin; therefore, 1 
built it around me with my own volition. 

“Man is spirit.” How foolish of us to crowd it around with 
hurtful elements to destroy ourselves, as I was doing with that 
horrid knife at my throat (my own thought, no knife was 
there). It burned into my flesh like a flame. 

In trying to overthrow the horrible suggestion, I fully 
apprehended that Infinity comes slowly. Polycarp said: “I 
cannot turn at once from good to evil.” No human beings 
accomplish this change suddenly. Sin brings its own self- 
destruction on every plane of existence. When life is under- 
stood, death will cease to occur. Then 
“the second death hath no power.” 
Soul or spirit is not in earthly atoms. 
The Pantheistic theory of spirit dwell- 
ing in matter is thrown aside when 
man only reflects the divine substance. 
God is not in the reflection, any more 
than man is in the mirror which reflects 
his image. God is seen only in that 
which reflects life, truth and beauty. 

I was an ascetic, sworn to single 
blessedness, and to bring my mental 
faculties to bear upon our higher 
nature. Being frail in body, I often 
fell into a comatose state, the direct 
result of the brotherhood focusing their minds upon me, ex- 
pecting to bring by force of will, a communication from another 
world. They never succeeded. It was their wish to make me 
into an inspired man, in order to work miracles, heal the sick 
and prophesy. They failed lamentably, and severely censured 
me for brooding over that mark on my neck, asserting that I 
must overcome its burning before success could be attained. 

I was of age — a young man. My delight was to wander 
among the shrubbery of the garden and to view the magnificence 
of nature from my elevated plateau on Mount Everest. During 
those walks I had a companion in the Prince. He showed me 
the abacus he had discovered, and I labored with it every day. 



The Count de Latour. 


109 


To be more exact, I will say that I coTild read the horoscope 
and the zodiac with fair results, which gave me the means of 
discerning the history of any object. [In France this science is 
called psychometry.] The Prince found the abacus in the 
sacred mountain, where Buddha yet lives. It may be a gift 
from his own hand.* 

I saw engraved upon the abacus the signs of a remote era. 
There were cut the signs of Rameses II., and of Yu, who engraved 
the stone tablets in the Singaufou Museum, China, in the year 
2200 B. C. The word “clef ” in Roman letters helped me to a 
conclusion — that the cross engraved thereon was a key. The 
Prince acted upon it, and fashioned one like it in brass. 

An uneasiness crept over me when 1 held that key. It 
seemed to be the key spoken of in Revelations — that deep pit 



“When I Walked on the Terrace of the Temple.” 

without bottom. The blood surged to my head, making me 
miserable, and I felt that there were mysteries of importance to 
unravel. 

Here begins my confession and the story of my adventures. 
I was proud when I walked on the terrace of the temple, and 
viewed my erect form in nature’s mirror, the lake. I was 
pleased with my decorations and clung to the life I loved, prov- 
ing that I must have struggled hard to enter it. 

In passing along the street of the native village on the slope 
of the mountain, my attention was attracted by the singing of a 
lady, a voice new to me, a clear and rich contralto. I was 


*Thisis explained by the Prince of India, in Chapter XXVI. 


110 


The Count de Latour. 


struck by the passion of that voice, but dared not inquire to 
whom it belonged. It is needless to say that I passed a restless 
night after hearing it. 

I went again the next day, and upon the balcony I saw a 
most charming lady, bowing graciously to me and smiling 
kindly. 

“Welcome, stranger,” she said, irresistibly, “please come 
and join us.” I bowed, acknowledging the invitation, and also 
salaamed like a native. 

“Thank you,” I answered, “the temptation is great, but I 
cannot refuse an invitation so graciously given. ” 

“Lay aside your priestly garb,” she said, smiling, “and 
have a little frivolity among us common folk.” 

She came down and opened the door. I entered the house 
and found myself in the rooms of a surgeon. 

“Your father, I suppose, is a physician,” 
I remarked, on taking the proffered seat. 

“Yes, and he is fond of music,” she re- 
plied. “Please accept my apology for pre- 
suming to address you.” 

“Most certainly.” 

“I saw you last evening,” she continued, 
“listening to my song, and I thought you en- 
joyed music. Besides, I knew a change would 
benefit you, after being confined in the rooms 
of the temple, among the old tomes, acting the 
role of Dryasdust there.” 

“You are very considerate, and I feel happy at having my 
condition fall under the notice of your kind consideration.” 

At this juncture her father entered. He was a man well 
up in years. We introduced ourselves by exchanging cards. 

“You are out of your element,” he ventured to say, 
cautiously, after looking at my tunic with surprise. 

“According to the codes, I am. But Nature’s ethics assert 
her own rights, and I could not resist the voice of your daughter.” 

“I perceive that you are intelligent enough to know that 
you have broken a solemn oath by speaking to my daughter. ” 

“That is so,” I answered, “I have committed a crime.” 

“We do not think so,” said he hastily, “we are Christians, 
and are here to convert the Buddhists.” 



The Missionary’s 
Daughter. 


The Count de Latour. 


Ill 


U I am confounded. Mine is a double crime.” 

“Not so!” exclaimed the young lady, breathlessly. “It is 
no crime to speak to a fellow creature.” 

“You are welcome to our home,” added her father. “We 
are medical missionaries, and have a band of followers here. 
We heal the soul and the body.” 

“Your undertaking is magnanimous and great,” I said, 
“worthy of every encouragement.” 

“Our nationality, you may have observed, is western,” he 
said. “We are Americans, sent under the auspices of the 
Methodist Missionary Society.” 

“Now, I fully comprehend your daughter’s song, and have 
me, a stranger, come into your house. 

You are from a land of liberty.. It is so 
different here where the majority are 
slaves.” 

“The freedom of America has made 
my daughter discreet. I can trust her 
anywhere.” 

“She must try and free her sisters 
from the thralldom of caste and da very,” 

I remarked. 

“Will you help me, sir?” she asked, 
earnestly. 

I was about to answer in the affirma- 
tive, when the overwhelming conviction 
came upon me that my oath forbade any intercourse with 
Christians. I battled with my feelings. Nature overcame my 
scruples and was triumphant. The fair American girl had 
greater influence over me than Gautama Buddha. She saw my 
awkwardness and hesitation. 

“Please do not, if you think it best,” she said. “Your religion, 
of course, prevents you from joining or even countenancing us. 
I will not press you. Christians are outspoken in their zeal for 
the Master, and we will pray that you will see the light as we do.’’ 

“I hope your prayers will be heard,” I said. 

In saying good-bye, I promised to visit them again. There 
was an affinity between that family and myself. I felt at 
home with them. They saw that I was not a native, and won- 
dered to find a European so advanced in the temple of Buddha. 



“I saw the Black Bird.” 


112 


The Count de Latour. 


I returned again to the mission and stood on the threshold, 
entranced by the sweet voice of a maiden, who was reciting. I 
listened with rapture to her stanzas: 

TO THE MUSE OF INDIA. 

“Good minstrel, rise; all nature cries 
For thy enchanting strain. 

Thy notes so rare — the perfumed air 
Echoes the sweet refrain. 

Touch vibrant lyre with secret fire, 

The Muse is hidden there. 

This is the land of golden strand, 

And India’s balmy air* 

Tbe pious prayers of good Benares, 

Thine inspiration crave; 

But Christian love from Christ above 
Will only free the slave. 

The fruitful palm will hear thy psalm, 

On breeze of airy height, 

Where tigers growl and jackals howl 
Their virgils of the night. 

The Ganges stream has one sad dream 
Of crushing Juggernaut. 

Now stands the dome, the temple home 
Of esoteric thought. 

From ocean shore to Singapore, 

Thy dulcet notes they seek. 

They hear thy lay from fair Bombay 
To Himalaya’s peak. 

Let music sway in far Cathay, 

Entrance the pluinaged bird. 

Make it abide by Rajah’s side, 

And elephantine herd. 

The honey bees on jungle trees, 

And serpents of the soil, 

Hum thy sweet song, which moves along 
Through Ceylon’s ruby Isle. 

The wild jackal in fair Bengal, 

Barks at the lion’s lair. 

In sweet Cashmere, poor Hindoos hear 
The Moslem’s call to prayer. 

The sin of caste is going fast; 

Man’s gain is Buddha’s loss. 

The Parsee heeds, the Brahmin needs 
The Savior of the Cross.’’ 


The Count de Latour. 


113 


I was soon introduced to the lady who had recited. She 
was my beau-ideal , the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, 
and my heart leapt with joy when my love for her found a 
responsive echo in her own breast. My fate was sealed. My 
vow was broken. I was a renegade, trampling my religion 
under foot, placing myself in a woful plight. 

The name of my fiancee was Mabel Morin. She came to 
India with her father, a French officer who had married an 
Algerian lady. 

Love escorted me to the temple of Hymen, and I committed 
an error by worshipping at that shrine. Mabel and I became 
one, and I trust all will be forgiven. Our marriage was sanc- 
tioned by the doctor and his daughter, and we agreed to keep 
it strictly secret. 

At that time, preparations were being made in the temple 
for sinking me into the clay, to gather earthly magnetism, and 
make a final triumph of mind over matter. I was to be buried, 
with a tube of air let into my resting place, and when I fell into 
a trance the tube was to be withdrawn. I was to lie there until 
the fresh air revived me, when they thought fit to disinter my 
entranced body. 

The day was at hand. This secret business, no one — not 
even my wife — knew about it outside the brotherhood. I was 
placed in the box and lowered into the chill damp clay of 
Everest. The tube was near me and I breathed through it. 
Then the soil was thrown in. Thud! thud! it fell on the box. I 
was in darkness; then my mind wandered to Mabel and I shud- 
dered. The mark on my neck burned. I thought of the New 
Jerusalem, and the pain moderated. I framed a pure mind and 
felt drowsy. I uttered a hopeful prayer, and joy permeated my 
frame. My sensations varied according to the state of my 
mind. Yet there was one thing wanting — the trance. I was 
to become entranced within one hour of my burial. The time 
hung heavily as I kept the tube in my mouth. Then I knew 
that this existence was a dream, having no real entity, but 
saith, “It is I,” and that Spirit is the Ego which never dreams, 
but understands everything, which is never born and never 
dies. Like a ray of light which comes from the sun, man is the 
outcome of God, reflecting His light. 

After being buried four hours, as near as I could compute, 


114 


The Count de Latour. 


the darkness lightened, {l nd I saw the vision of a hand holding 
the number “28.” Then came before me the outlines of a 
beautiful palace and an Abbey. After that came an old fortress 
on a rocky hill. The influx of magnetism pervaded my person 
and I was in darkness again. 

I know not how long I remained thus, when a noise above 
me proved that the brothers were disinterring me, and I was 
soon carried into the temple and placed in a darkened room. 
They gave me cordials until I was strong again. The experi- 
ment failed. I did not go to heaven, nor did I even fall into a 
trance. 

“We waited, expecting you to cease breathing,” said the 
Prince. “There is something wrong; pray tell us if you know 
of anything to prevent the trance.” 

“I know of nothing,” I answered in stifled accents, feeling 
guilty, for I knew that my love for my wife, Mabel, was the 
cause of it, but dared not mention such a thing, as I was under 
the obligations of a fearful oath and in a pitiable predicament. 

He held the abacus in his hand, and at that moment it 
occurred to me that I had seen something. I related what I 
saw, drawing upon paper the outline of the palaspe, the Abbey, 
the fortress and the hand holding the number “28.” He was 
glad to reoeive them. To me they were meaningless and had 
no part in our faith. 

The box in which I had been buried was taken into a shed 
behind the temple, and as I strolled in that direction I heard 
the croak of a raven — bird of ill-omen. I went to where the 
sound was and I saw the black bird upon the edge of the box. It 
was pecking away noisily. On seeing me approach, it flew away. 

I went to the box to see what had attracted the bird, and 
found a piece of yellow linen, dirty and old. Upon it were 
words in Latin. I made out plainly the name of Raphael Sanzio 
d’ Urbino, and immediately gave it to the Prince. 

My next experiment underground takes place soon, and 
this story of myself may be my last effort. As I love my wife, 
Mabel, and from that love death may ensue, putting us asunder 
(I pray to heaven it may not). Yet I will try to remove the 
stain from me, and be a sacrifice unto many. Anyway, I can 
be a martyr in the interest of science. Until I rise again, will 
say farewell! 



Chapter XVIII. Translation of the Papyrus. 

JDER the wings of Asshur, in the shadow 
of Nisroch, I, Marco Harnet, scribe of the 
Inner House of Sacrifice, did witness the 
fall of King Sardanapalus, who governed 
Nineveh. The punishment of God was 
upon him. He committed heinous acts 
to be expiated by himself — only himself — 
yet he was cruel enough to place his bur- 
den upon the shoulders of others. . 

The King was weak and effeminate. 
His animal proclivities overbalanced his 
moral nature, holding his spirit low in 
the dust. In recording his life and death, I say fervently 
before beginning: God rest his soul, and may it stay silently 
in the lower region of spirits, undisturbed by evil elements, and 
unknown to Him who gave it life, whose wrath cannot be 
appeased by this doer of such deadly crimes. 

Since the demise of Nimrod, our throne remained unsullied. 
And now we are left to perdition— chains manacle our limbs, 
our women are in the triumphal cavalcade behind the chariots 
of our captors, who are merciless and unforbearing in their 
manner towards us. The Babylonian, the Mede and the Per- 
sian have crushed us. Truly the wrath of our god hath stricken 
us. Before me rises Babel. I am in the shadow only of her 
former greatness, picking away with stylus upon clay, to be 
transferred by the skilled hand of the Egyptian in hieratic let- 
ters upon papyrus. This history must be preserved for the 
guidance of others. 

At the age of twenty-five I was installed at the sacrificial 




116 


The Count de Latour. 


altar of Wisdom by the King. This promotion was a punish- 
ment to me for presuming to cast my eyes upon a lady whom 
he esteemed. I was educated in the school of prophecy and 
necromancy, branches of study differing from the astrology 
practiced in Babylon. 

In the courtyard of the palace, near the amphora at the 
termini, I saw the King. He was bold in his stride. His sin- 
don of lace hung short, his shoulders were slightly bent, and 
his plaited beard glistened with oil in the sun. He had an 
eagle-like nose and piercing eyes, was taller than usual man, 
but he had not the majestic appearance of his father. 

As his sandal struck the pavement with a nervous tread, I 
knew he was sorely vexed, but thought 
not his anger would fall on my own head. 

“Armino is no longer a Bactrian 
maid,” he muttered in my hearing. “I 
will subdue her people. The proud Sheik 
shall humble himself before me.” 

Just then his favorite lady crossed 
the yard. She was clad beautifully in 
silks of Coa, and pencilled delicately on 
her eyebrows. She wore long ear-rings 
of opal and dainty rings upon her fingers. 

“Is my lord ill to-day?” she asked, 
with a bewitching smile. 

“Yes, sick from too strong wine,” “i saw the King.” 
he answered, listlessly. “My appetite is too good, and the 
spectacle of the dance too frolicsome. ” 

“Could my lord take an antidote?” smiling playfully. 

“I have taken herbs enough to kill a camel.” 

I saw them enter the palace. Their conversation aroused 
my indignation, as it betrayed his character. The name of 
Armino was not new to me. 1 had visited her people, far away 
over the arid desert, and I was hurt to hear her name from the 
mouth of the King, as she was my betrothed. 

Sardanapa^us was a jealous King. He troubled me in 
many ways. And now he wished to wed that good and noble 
girl, the Princess of the Bactrians, a proud, fighting race of 
people. 

By her being no longer a Bactrian maid, meant that as soon 



The Count de Latour. 


117 


as a King desired a certain girl, she became of his nation. Such 
is the divine right of Kings. 

I vowed to protect her. I knew the penalty. I would 
suffer in doing that duty. I knew that the delicate Armino 
could not brook the presence of the King, to say nothing of the 
gross impropriety of his taking her to wife. 

Woe to those who fall under the King’s evil eye. 1 have 
seen girls from Accad come in their beauty, obliged to submit 
to all sorts of indignities. That voluptuous" court of Nineveh 
was one of pollution, the miserable speck and open sore of this 
fair universe. 

1 caparisoned my camel at once and journeyed to Armino, 
my beloved, to warn her of impending danger. 

“Armino,” I cried, in a tone of calm despair, on seeing her 
near the tent, “misfortune is hovering 
over you. The King has been to see you 
in disguise.” 

“1 have seen no king, Marco.” 

“I don’t think you have, dear girl, 
for he is a brute, and of brutes he might 
be king.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Sardanapalus has fallen in love with 
you.” . 

“O, Marco, how can you be so jeal- 
ous?” 

“I am jealous, but 1 have reason to 
believe his soldiers are coming to steal you, and force you to 
submit to his overtures for marriage.” 

“I cannot believe,” said Armino, seriously, “that the 
ungainly person who was here is the King. His disguise was 
complete. In acting the boor to perfection he could not hide 
his besotted eye.” 

“Your father and the tribe must flee,” I cried, desperately, 
“and I will accompany them to Samaria.” 

No sooner Lad my camel drank his fill, no sooner had 
Armino entered her tent, than a cloud was Seen in the distance, 
and I fell upon the sand in despair. The glittering casque and 
flashing spear proclaimed the soldiers of the King. They came 
towards the camp and in a short time we were all taken prisoners. 



118 


The Count de Lcttour. 


As the sun turned the cirrus cloud into gold the next morn- 
ing, the caravan moved over the desert. In that sorry band I 
could not get near my love, for I was kept from her at the 
point of the spear. 

There was a mighty power of will growing within me. I, 
a servant of the King, frustrating his wishes. Such a thing was 
unheard of, but I felt controlled by emissaries of Assyria’s god 
to combat his inclinations, and I loved Armino with a passionate 
love, which made me strike once more for justice. 

In crossing the desert, that frightful picture came to me of 
Assyria’s woes. Her decadence lay in a loathsome disease, 
where the pure spirit is clad in its casement, willing, yet unable 
to flee to the God who gave it. Armino’s delicate pink flesh 
would succumb to its encroaches as she breathed the foul pesti- 
lence of Nineveh. 

I lost no time in speaking to the King: 

“Know ye, O King, ‘That the eyes of the foul man shall 
be plucked out, when his offspring are eaten with the taint.’ 
Thus sayeth the law of our forefathers.” 

“What mean you, priest?” he asked, with astonished 
reproof. 

“To warn you of coming danger, and to have a kinder 
heart in your adjudication to-day.” 

We sat in the audience chamber, and I again warned him 
during the interval of the sackbut music. 

“Remember! O King,” I whispered to him. 

Then he turned to me with a crushing look. His anger 
mad'e him livid, and from his eyes peered a sprite of the nether 
world. I felt compelled to wrestle with that evil one who had 
possession of his flesh. He was there to overthrow our accumu- 
lated virtues and to drag us down to a primordial state. But I 
held aloof when I thought of my love, and retired to the edge 
of the dais. 

The loud tramping of the soldiers told us of the captives 
being at hand. Armino and all her kindred were brought 
before the King, preceded by dusky Ethiopians. I shed silent 
tears at the sight. *6he was so fair to look upon as her dress 
hung loosely over her graceful person. Her sandaled feet and 
tapering fingers showed high birth, and her head was defiantly 
held back as her eyes flashed disdainfully at her abductor. She 


The Count de Latour. 


119 


was the first woman who looked at the King thus. They usually 
held their heads down in abject servitude. Armino cared not 
for herself. It was her parents who occupied her thoughts, 
and for their sakes would face the evil one himself. 

“Name your wants, Prince,” rudely said the King, address- 
ing her father, “goats or camels, palm oil or cheetahs?” 

“None of them,” answered he, with a manifest struggle. 

“I am ready to buy your daughter. Be considerate and 
name your price.” 

“Wo refuse your offer.” 

The King turned to his grandees and priests of Nineveh 
with a look of grotesque astonishment. 



Armino’s Home. 

“My royal precedent is supported by the alternative of 
force. I will marry your daughter.” 

“I defy you, and refuse,” answered the Prince of Bactriana, 
the most ancient dynasty of the desert. 

“Speak, girl, Avhat say you ?” asked the King, turning to 
Armino. 

“My father has spoken,” replied Armino, simply. 

The King was angry. For once his wishes were denied 
him. His will thwarted, he relapsed into a despicable, sullen 
mood as he waved his hand, saying, “Away with them,” in any- 
thing but a gentle command, which meant that Armino was to 
be kept alone, and her kindred in prison. I saw the guards 
march away with my beloved. 

At the impulse of that moment I put my hand upon the 



120 


The Count de LatouVi 


hilt of my dagger, ready to commit regicide. (I now regret not 
having done so there and then.) 

The extreme danger that surrounded Armino made me 
alert, and I acted at once by approaching the King: 

“O, King! The curse of Nisroch is hovering over you. 
On thy head rests many crimes.” 

“Begone!” he imperiously exclaimed, “have you forgotten 
that the royal sceptre is held only by a minor god?” 

“Nay, O King, that claim is forfeited in your case. I have 
condoned your crimes often, and cannot again resist the edict of 
the temple,” was my warning response. 

I saw that he had imbibed wine, and was not himself. He 
was overcome by the evils of the flesh. After giving him the 
warning, he went to his orgies, and the strains of music sounded 
over the courtyard from the nebel harp of ten strings to the 
voice of the singer : 

BACCHANALIAN SONG. 

“Lift thou this cup of ruby wine, 

And we will merry be. 

’Tis from the Syrian’s spreading vine, 

The richness that you see. 

Let all thy worldly cares now fall; 

Make glad your heart to-day. 

Come! Join our merry bacchanal, 

Take the cup — drink away 

Thou movest not; why pauseth thou 
At this, our merry hour? 

We’ve gained a pretty bride just now, 

To sit in queenly bower — 

A jewel to outshine the rest; 

A bright one, too, we think, 

To wear crown, diadem and crest — 

Her health, come let us. drink. 

What? Sober still and movest not, 

In palace of the free; 

And silent yet, hast thou forgot 
Thy land of liberty? 

The goblet fill, raise high the bowl, 

And show that all is well; 

Sing the song of a happy soul, 

Make strains of music swell.” 

The disturbances caused by the free indulgence of Aleppo 
wine in the King’s chambers were annoying to us of the temple as 








The Count de Latour. 


121 


we sat in solemn conclave. The elders of the priests were 
grieved, and with trembling hands turned to the scrolls, not in 
vain, for we saw the end by the help of the astrologer and 
the zodiac. We were to be given up to the enemy as carrion 
for the jackal and the vulture. The wolf and the lion would 
prowl among the ruins of our city. 

“Gentle fathers, we must be lively. Our kingdom is in 
danger and the Tigris will flow in blood,” I loudly said. 

“Marco is wise,” said the President. We must take the 
King prisoner at the risk of our lives.” 

“Carry your emblem of authority, holy father, and we will 
follow,” I urged, gently. 

“The Gods of Nineveh are with us,” he declared, “come to 
the palace.” 

We donned our clerical robes and made a vast procession. 



“A Vast Procession.” 


We went toward the women’s rooms in search of the King. 
Instead of swaying his sceptre in the recess of the temple, he 
was debauching himself. His prayers were said by proxy, and 
we thought he might once in awhile pray for himself. 

On nearing the room wherein Armino was confined, groans 
and sighs burst upon the air, with an interval of shrieking. 
The guards at the curtains repulsed us, and at that moment the 
favorite wife of the King came to us, crying: 

“Sardanapalus is crushed. The demon of ill has leveled 
him to the floor.” 



122 


The Count de La tour, 


; ‘Culm yourself, good woman; where is he?” asked the high 
priest, in amazement. 

“Follow, and I will lead,” she answered, at the same time 
showing the guard her signet of entry. 

On entering the room, the scene was strange beyond meas- 
ure. There he was prone upon the floor, attended by his slaves. 
His hair had become almost white, and his expression fiendish. 
His body was rigid like the working of poison with intense 
agony. His gay robe was torn and his beard covered with 
blood. There were scratches on his face 
as though he had fought with a lion. 

We left that scene and retired to our 
crypt in the temple yard. 

Some time afterwards I was ordered 
to prepare the holocaust in sacrifice of 
thanksgiving for the King’s recovery. 
His marauders had captured two Arab 
girls, who were kept to sacrifice in order 
to appease the gods who had sent that 
affliction upon the King. The girls lived 
in the garden of the Queen and knew not 
their fate. 

At last the day came. The rams were duly slain, their 
blood sprinkled on the altar; then the goat’s meat was served 
on platters, and the wine in their skins at the table of the great 
hall, round which was the triclinium. The grandees were there 
in full numbers. The King was at the place of honor. How 
changed he was. He seemed to be another person, and I was 
joyous when the women came in, among whom I looked in vain 
for Armino, who came not, for 1 knew she was safe. 

And I saw the invisible emotions of his soul, by virtue of 
occult knowledge. I saw that soul enthroned in the gorgeous- 
ness of inert atoms, where a touch or an accident might annihi- 
late. Like an airy bubble he sat there, expanding to his own 
destruction, shining with the fatal resplendency of wrong, and 
as small as the most insignificant trilobite, for I read this aphor- 
ism in my vision: “A true man respects the reputation of a 
woman, but a mouse will gnaw in the dark at a spotless garment. ” 

The performers entered, showing the dance in skilful 
gyrations, and agile in their movements. 



‘Silence Reigned.” 


The Count de Latour . 


12ft 

The two little Arab girls were ushered in front of the dais, 
to sing, perhaps, their last song on , earth: 

LAMENTATIONS. 

“Sweet oasis, dear home of sand, 

We shed a tear; we heave a sigh — 

Despair and grief on every hand, 

Hear thy children’s plaintive cry. 

In tents w« laid our heads to rest, 

To desert hdmes did we belong. 

Deep sorrows pierce this heaving breast, 

Upon its tender casement throng. 

From our loved ones are we parted, 

With aching hearts and troubled sleep; 

Ere the gushing tear had started 
From out a maiden’s eye to weep. 

We strike the string of tuneful lyre, 

Past visions crowd the heated brain. 

Our hearts are like a burning fire, 

Fast throbbing to be free again. 

Anknals in the desert roam, 

’Tis Mother Nature’s kind decree 

To make the cave their quiet home — 

So wild, so happy and so free. 

Our heads are low, bent in sorrow, 

As proud Nineveh’s captive slaves. 

No free moments can we borrow, 

To get that joy which freedom craves. 

A mother’s voice! Can we forget 
The loving word, the quiet prayer 

So often murmured? Need we fret, 

Receiving such a loving care? 

Oh ! We would leave the harp unstrung, 

And let the clashing cymbal lie, 

If childhood’s happy thoughts be wrung 
From saddened hearts before we die. 

Yet, we will sing of love and joy, 

To an eternal Maker’s praise. 

Harp and lyre do we employ, 

The words upon our tongues we raise.” 

It was my duty to inform those girls of their fate, and I 
did so privately. 

“Do not fear me, dear girls,” I said, when I accosted them 


124 


The Count de Latour. 


on the patli of the garden on the banks of the river Hiddicel 
(Tigris). 

“Wo don’t fear you, sir,” they answered, looking at me 
with their large, expressive, brown eyes. 

4 ‘You must flee hence,” I urged, “you are prisoners to be 
sacrificed.” 

They began to weep, and from my innermost soul I pitied 
those wild daughters of the desert. 

“I have prepared yonder boat. Mount the camels after 
crossing the river. Traverse the desert as fast as the animals 
can stride.” 

4 ‘Thank you, kind and noble sir.” 

“I have suborned the slaves. They will care for you on 
your journey.” 

That night, silence reigned throughout the temple yard. 
The only noise w r as from the pelican among the rushes on the 
river, splashing the water; the stork fluttering on the parapet, 
or the fall of a lance by a careless sentinel on the battlements. 
The sleepers expected early sacrifice. I smiled to myself, know- 
ing how disappointed they would be. I was awakened in the 
morning by the shrill cry of a passing pygarg in its flight over 
the desert, escaping the breath of the blinding simoon. 




Chapter XIX. Translation of the Papyrus ( Concluded ). 

HE winged lions of the courtyard were lit 
by the scintillations of the sun. The me- 
morial of stonework from the tower of 
Babel stood alone in the center of the 
court. Nebo’s colossal body was promi- 
nent at the gate of the palace. From the 
fish gods (mermaids) flowed clear water 
into the basin. The birds sang joyously, 
oblivious of everything unhappy. Man 
only was mournful. 

I heard the step of the high priest as 
he left his retreat on his way to the tem- 
ple, and I hastened to inform him of what I had done: 

“Holy father, I crave your pardon, for I have released the 
Arab girls.” 

“You are courageous, my son. I love you the more for 
that kind act. The gods are propitious, but cannot be appeased 
after what has taken place.” 

“Are we to take the King prisoner?” I asked. 

“No, he has been subdued by the will of divine Providence, 
and he is a changed man. ” 

“The gods anticipated us, holy father, and held him from 
committing more sin. ” 

I thanked heaven for preserving Armino to me, but I won- 
dered why she persisted in her seclusion. I saw her relatives 
often, as I comforted them in their prison. They sorrowed for 
' their daughter, and shook their heads despondently when I said 
she was well cared for. 

A sinister expression came upon the King’s visage after his 
illness. I saw him again arrayed in the insignia of his office. 



126 


The Count de Latour . 


He was surrounded by the necromancers, who bent before him 
in sycophant attitude. I despised them. I could not stoop to 
receive his empty honors for giving doubtful prophecies. Such 
baseness was foreign to me, henee the King was my enemy. 

His libations became more frequent, and what pained me 
most of all was to see him drink out of that sacred vessel, the 
holy cup of Nimrod. He cared little for this treasure, and 
I knew when the enemy entered our gates the 
cup would be taken, so I kept my eye upon it. 

A day of woe came at last. The King acted 
with his own hand. His savage nature gloated 
over oozing visera. No spark of intelligence 
guided his unclean hand. His rapacious instinct 
moved the cruel knife. My nature revolted at 
the horrors of living sacrifice. 

The temple was crowded at the clepsydra’s 
hour. I saw the King disrobe and be anointed. 

1 he High Priest, gcra ^ c ] a on bis f ace bad no t healed and I 

observed a mark on his neck also, as though a hand had 
grasped it. 

He walked forth in all the glory of fine raiment, like a 
puppet dressed for show. The interior spectacle of the temple 
was beautiful. The music of the kinnor was triumphant and 
loud. The incense of aromatics ascended as he approached to 
where I stood. The toph and drum rolled in harmony with the 
anthem. The choristers sang and the sistrums rattled. The 
music was voluminous in its swell. I remember well the words: 

THE GOD OF ALL. 

Know ye the great Kind Heart that beats for all men? 

And in breasts of us all again and again; 

Ruling on high, sympathetic and sublime, 

Felt by the lone denizens of every clime. 

It beats for the world and every living thing; 

Gives life from the throne of a marvelous King. 

Know ye the Creator and Maker of all? 

The monster Behemoth and the insect small. 

Trees of the forest and flowers of the field 

Are under His loving protection and shield. 

The rocks bow to His great and mighty decree, 

When kissed by the waters of the rippling sea. 



The Count de Latour. 


127 


From Aurora of the north to desert sand, 

None forgotten by His benevolent hand. 

All the creatures that breathe upon Him rely, 

When laboring under His vigilcnt eye. 

Every atom is under His watchful care, 

Brought into life by His mighty spirit there. 

He reigneth in the wide spheres that are on high, 

Ready to comfort us and dry the moist eye. 

Inspiration and truth are breathed from above, 

In holiness, charity, beauty and love. 

I felt constrained to echo the warning voice again, although 
it Avas unusual to do so upon an occasion like this: 

“The gods of Nisroch forbid this thing, O King.” 

Ho paused a^d looked at me contemptuously. My impru- 
dence had drawn upon me a glance of hatred, mingled with 
scorn. 

At the sound of the gong he marched to the altar, upon 
which were two very pretty slave girls. He turned, and our 
eyes met. Then I again saw that sprite who was so accursed. 
He took the blade from the acolyte and the hemlock from the 
high priest. The King broke 
the vial holding the latter into 
fragments by throwing it upon 
the marble pavement. Instead 
of making the girls drink the 
hemlock of unconsciousness, he 
slew them with his practiced 
hand. The unerring blow drew 
forth shrieks painful to hear. “The Rocks bow to His Great and 
Instantly the King raised his Mighty Decree.” 

hand to his forehead and sank upon the floor with a groan and 
swooned away. 

I saw that all the pharmacopia of the doctors could not 
restore him, so I passed over his prostrate form, and at once 
put the girls out of their misery by administering deadly poison. 

Surely the curse had fallen, when the trumpets on the bat- 
tlements sounded, and the cry: “To arms!” was voiced over the 
city. Like an avalanche did the soldiers rush upon the besieg- 
ers. Springing to our feet in a moment, and grasping lance 
and buckler, we were soon repulsing the invaders, who were 
led by the high command of Belesis, the viceroy of Babylon. 



128 


The Count de Latour. 


We left the King in the temple. As a coward and a pal- 
troon, he was unable to lead us. We were crushed and beaten, 
and I hastened to inform him, and lo! he was not there, but 1 
found him in the palace, surrounded by female attendants, who 
were tied together with chains. The jewels, the silver and gold 
of Nineveh were in heaps before him. He was afraid and could 
not die alone. 

“Curse you, sir priest!” he roared at me, furiously, “bring- 
ing me bad news.” 

“Beware! O King,” I said, in solemn accents. “Go to 



The Babylonian Temple 


Babylon; do penance in chains. Belesis demands thee in his 
triumph.” 

“Never!” he exclaimed, in fierce intonation, “1 die by my 
own hand. ” 

“Take thine own soul hence, but at your peril destroy not 
more lives,” I said, imperatively. 

The clatter of arms was heard in the palace yard. The 
enemy was upon us. The King took a burning brand, applied 
it to the timbers, and the flames darted around, when I heard a 
scream which made my blood run cold: 

“Marco! Marco!” 

“Armino!” I answered, briefly, hastening to where she was. 
And there, chained with the others, was my beloved, on the 
Verge of being burned alive. It was the work of a moment for 
me to use my sword in snapping that chain, and from out of the 
flames I carried her safely, returning again to secure the cup of 
Nimrod 


The Count de Latour. 


129 


Sardanapalus in anger struck me, and I,* in revenge, felled 
him to the ground, seized the cup and took it as a trophy of 
Nineveh’s faded glory. 

The shrieks of the women were dreadful, as the flames 
sizzled around the pyre. 1 tried to save them, but could not, 
yet one fond mother placed her infant in my arms, pleading 
that its life might be spared. 

I saw the King in the flames. He looked at me. Wicked- 
ness was pictured in his face, which was scarcely human. 
“Whom the gods destroy, they first make mad.” 1 saw the 
palace and its contents reduced to a pile of ashes. 

On his neck I saw a fiery mark. There seemed to be flames 
in it like burning coal. 

We were marched to Babylon. My love, Armino, went 
among her kindred. We were captives, divided in that “Queen 
of cities.” 

The aged high priest brought me good tidings of her. 

“Stay, Marco, do not dis- 
turb the Arab camp. Your 
love will be with you soon. 
She is indisposed, and will meet 
you when she recovers. I will 
bring her to you as your bride.’’ 

He did so, and I found her, 
my Princess, to be more lovely 

‘ Reduced to a Pile of Ashes. than before. 

“You saved my life, Mar- 
co,” she said, with deference and affection, falling into my 
embrace. “The victory is mine. The King was stricken to 
the ground by Angelic hand, but I have been long in agony 
without you.” 

“Armino!” I exclaimed, “we all suffer, but I question 
whether the means of suffering should be through the divine 
right of kings. Curse him! causing innocence to suffer through 
his guilt. Our doctrine is that we work out our own salvation, 
and not cast our burden upon others.” 

I took my sweetheart by the hand, and led her to the 
Babylonian temple, where we knelt in prayer. From thence 
we proceeded to the hanging gardens and rested at the fountains 
near the storax trees, when she told me her story: 



130 


The Count de Latour. 


“I was sitting- quietly and alone, when two women came to 
me. They requested that I wear a gossamer robe which they 
had brought, to receive the King. They likewise brought silken 
apparel and sandals ornamented with precious stones. They 
plaited my hair afresh and penciled my eyebrows with kohl, to 
which operation 1 submitted with a very bad grace. 

fct I could not hide my grief, and prayed for you to come. 
After giving me wine, they retired, leaving me alone. The 
light came upon me vertically from a lattice in the roof. My 
prayer was heard. 

“Sardanapalus came, imploring me to wed him. His pro- 
posals were scorned by me, as I persistently refused. Then a 



The Altar. 


mighty spirit came to me, and with superhuman effort I felled 
him to the floor.” 

“I know well, Armino, that the genius of woman shrinks 
from controversy with knaves and fools.” 

In due time the aged priest married us, and we were one. 
Although we were captives, special privileges were given to us 
of holy orders. We suffered no indignity, but were revered by 
our captors, who gave us lay positions in the temple. 

In strict secrecy we guarded the golden cup of Nimrod, 
hoping some day to place it in the hands of a new King of 
Nineveh at the restoration, when the inanition and interregnum 
was ended. 

The little girl, my protege, the daughter of the King, whom 
I had saved from the fire, grew up to womanhood. I was her 


The Count de Latour. 


131 


guardian. Something had been transmitted into her blood. 
The King’s evil had descended to his offspring. God is good, 
and I prayed for an elimination of the evil from her. But the 
girl was wayward and headstrong. She heeded not my counsel, 
and displayed a restless desire to travel. 

The Babylonian swains never sought her, although she was 
a King’s daughter. At marriageable age, she became infatu- 
ated with a slave, a man from the lowest ranks of society, much 
against our will, and they were married. 

This undesirable couple went to Egypt, taking the cup with 
them. She claimed it, and 1 solemnly warned her to abstain 
from sin; to use it as a treasure and look upon it with awe, as 
it had the virtues of a talisman when 
handled in a proper spirit. 

They arrived at Alexandria, where 
he was employed at the beacon-light on 
the Isle of Pharos, which gives light to 
the ships at sea. 

She, a Princess, soon regretted her 
rash step. Filled with remorse, she be- 
came low enough to associate with the 
drunken roustabouts on the wharf. A 
king’s daughter fallen so low! What 
changes are therein store for us? We, 
pious, upright people, might come again 
to live out another phase of existence, to 
make us more perfect men and women, by the hard school of 
experience. 

The caravan came to Babylon from the West. It brought 
news which distressed me, about the behavior of my protege. 
She, in her dissipation, had parted with the cup to a Roman 
captain, who carried it to Antioch. She had given birth to a 
daughter. I wrote to her on a tablet, to seek the captain at 
once, sending her specie to do so, for the purpose of repur- 
chasing the cup. 

They went to Antioch and succeeded in getting it back 
again, but they sojourned in Syria. 

A synopsis of our faith explains my position. We believed 
in reincarnation,' and I am sure that the soul of Sardanapalus 
will reappear to undo the evil he has wrought. He will come as 



“My Protege.” 


132 


The Count de Latour. 


another person, but the same entity. Not as a king, but as a 
slave, to be kicked from pillar to post as he deserves. 

We believed that God was one, yet dual, male and female 
together; that he has satalites who do his bidding. These are 
the lesser gods. 

We concluded in the horoscope of Sardanapalus that he 
had formerly been a demon before coming here to lord it over 
to us, hence his power. He had the acumen to be born of 
kingly parents, which honorable birth he dishonored, and by so 
doing disgraced us all. He abused the sacred trust and his 
regrets drag him into Hades. His torture will make him be 
reembodied right quickly, to do his penance 
by coming as a female, which element he 
discarded, abused and brought low into abject 
misery and degradation. The female goddess 
of heaven wills it, and she forces repentance 
for the insults to her sex, from one genera- 
tion to another, until the irreversible sin 
which he committed is finally blotted out in a 
future age of posterity. 

The last blow has come upon me. The 
King’s blood will never be wiped out on this 
earth. The demon’s mark is on his daugh- 
ter’s neck. She has sent me word that her innocent babe is 
suffering from it also. 

My wife had clutched Sardanapalus on the neck with her 
right hand, leaving there the seal of a god whose goddess of 
vengeance will remain forever unappeased. 1 saw it like a 
burning coal. His soul is indelibly marked with it. As he 
suffers, his spirit will shine, lighted as a beacon with dangerous 
warning, the devouring flame ever issuing from his neck. 

The old prophecy came to pass. The curse of Nisroch had 
stricken Nineveh, turning her palaces into the abode of lions, 
and her towers as a resting place for vultures. 

Age is creeping upon me. My head is weary; the stylus 
cuts bluntly. I bid my wife Armino give this tablet to the 
caravan going to Antioch. 

This history belongs to her who has recently given birth to 
a little babe. It may help to remove a stumbling-block from 
the child’s path. 



“The Stylus cuts 
Bluntly. 



Chapter XX. Translation of the Parchment. 



YZANTIUM was visited by the Bishop of 
Antioch in the year 87 A. D. on a quest of 
peculiar importance. He was there to hire 
the services of a man named David, an 
athlete of sinew, who had won laurels at 
Olympia. David came from Sparta, and 
was a descendant of Theseus, who slew the 
Minotaur. 


David was engaged in the arena at 
Byzantium. He showed superior prowess in horsemanship and 
athletics. He was also a follower of Jesus the Christ, and had 
visited the churches of Asia, looking for preferment at the 
hands of his diocesan, the Bishop, who ordered him to repair at 
once to Rome, for there was to be another hecatomb of martyrs 
in that city, by order of the pagans, in the Flavian amphitheatre. 

A young girl named Ar minus came under the ban of the 
Emperor. She was a descendant of the Assyrians, and brought 
up in the city of Antioch. 

Her own country had been destroyed long ago. Arbaces, 
the governor of Media, and Belesis, the viceroy of Babylon, had 
grasped the ancient Shinar, and Nineveh fell from the rule of 
King Sardanapalus with dishonor. In the year 767 B. C. the 
empire was subverted, after being in existence (according to 
Ctesius) 1400 years. 

Diodorus Siculus says that the city of Nineveh was twenty- 
one miles long, nine miles broad, fifty-four miles in circumfer- 
ence, and that its walls were one hundred feet high, so broad 
that three chariots could drive upon them abreast, and that the 
city had fifteen hundred towers, all two hundred feet high. 

Arminus held in her possession a cruse made of pure gold 
which had belonged to her remote ancestor, Nimrod, the mighty 
hunter before the Lord. The clergy used it as a chalice in the 



134 


The Count de Latour. 


celebration of the holy eucharist or sacrament of the Lord’s 
supper in the church at Antioch. 

Imperial Rome took possession of it as booty. It was, at 
the time of this writing, in the palace of the Emperor — stolen 
from its rightful owner, the young girl Arminus, who, being a 
devout Christian, was to be burned, or destroyed by wild beasts 
in the amphitheatre, according to the caprice of the Emperor 
Domitian. 

The inscriptions on the cruse were decipherable, intimating 
the fact of its passing from one generation to another, and that 
the owner would suffer a certain horror, which no person ever 
felt out of the line of descent. 

The good Bishop of the church of Antioch took care to 
guard £he girl well, knowing not what calamity might fall 
upon her. 

The Roman spies bruited abroad her little history in Rome. 

A centurian was sent to snatch the cup. 
The standard bearers advanced, holding 
aloft the eagle, — a fitting emblem of their 
grasping nature — then followed the leader 
of the cohorts. 

Misfortune fell to the lot of the Chris- 
tians. The soldiers found the young girl 
in the chapel praying, with a crucifix in 
her hand — a fair excuse for taking her pris- 
oner. They stole the cup also, for its mar- 
ketable value, and for the coinage of specie. 

The good brother, David, was a giant in strength, having 
Christian grace to inspire him. He and the Bishop went to 
Rome to save the girl and recover the cup. The inscription 
positively declared that no breach would occur in its transmis- 
sion, therefore the Bishop felt confident of gettingit back again. 

“The cup is in the palace of the Palatine,” said the Bishop 
to David, as they stood in the place of the Forum, “and you 
must enlist in the body-guard of the Emperor. 

“There is no time, Reverend Father,” answered David. 
“Our people are already in the catacomb dungeons oiling for 
the morrow.” 

“We must join them at once,” calmly said the Bishop. 

The two Christians went to the pagan temple, declared 



The Count de Latour. 


135 


their adherence to their cause as true followers of Christ, much 
to the amazement of the unholy men there. They were doomed 
by the Augurs, with the portentous cry: “Christians to the 
lions!’’ proscribed and thrust into the cells underneath the city 
among the other hapless brethren. 

Voices were heard in that gloomy place, ascending to 
heaven, from those caves, singing blessed hymns. Gloria in 
excelsis. Christus regnat. 

David was restless in captivity. He bribed the jailer to 
open the ponderous gate so that he might be among the breth- 
ren. The Bishop and ho were on the alert. They went through 
many dim and narrow passages to where the voices ascended. 
Tombs were on every side, marked with sacred emblems. 

FROM DEATH UNTO LIFE. 

The spectre Death, with baneful breath 
And funereal pall, 

Has touched the bones beneath the stones 
Of his sepulchral hall. 

The phantom waves upon the graves 
His dark and dreary plumes. 

Along he glides, with rapid strides, 

Among the silent tombs. 

The catacombs with miles of tombs, 

Their dead they cannot hide. 

No tongue can tell how they so well 
Loved Christ, the crucified. 

Upon the word of Christ the Lord, 

They placed their hopes and fears. 

As angels there, so bright and fair, 

In heaven’s happy spheres. 

So pure and light, with garments white, 

And freed from every vice, 

How glad they sing, as echoes ring 
In holy Paradise. 

Coming to an opening in the vast sepulchre, they stood 
utterly aghast at the awful scene before them. Soldiers were 
employed preparing the victims by rubbing upon them, regard- 
less of sex, palm oil and fat to make them supple. 

The tears of the women were unavailing. One girl was 
seen in a corner. A soldier roughly drew her forth. She was 


136 


The Count de Latour. 


the picture of modesty, and beautiful to look upon. The shame 
less and cruel Roman was callous in his work, or he could never 
have treated her so roughly. That girl was Arminus, the 
bright child of Antioch. 

The Bishop could not repress his emotion, and cried out in 
his Aramean vernacular: 

“Patience, dear child! Your father is here.” 

She heard his voice, clasped her hands and looked heaven- 
ward in thankful prayer. She was a saint in the sight of God, 
and even the divine light of her eyes and countenance made the 
soldiers pause and reflect for a moment and rest from their dis- 
tressing task. She submitted to the process of oiling without a 
murmur of dissent. 

David the Spartan, on seeing this, vowed a vow, made the 
form of a cross over his heart, and asked 
a blessing upon that vow. He was a hero, 
and the Lord was with him. He too, sub- 
jected himself to the oiling. Tne band of 
Christians were left' to themselves and 
listened to a homily by the Bishop. Their 
only disturbing noise was the roaring of 
savage beasts, ravenous and hungry, in 
the dens, ready for the mortal combat 
with their natural enemy, man. 

Arminus was weeping bitterly. She 
went to the Bishop, her spiritual adviser, 
for comfort, saying: 

“Holy father, what have we done to 
merit such punishment? ” 

“Be calm, and exercise patience, dear child. The Lord 
chasteneth whom He loveth.” 

“I am unhappy and miserable,” she sobbed. 

The Bishop’s emotion choked his utterance. He tried to 
soothe her by rubbing off the stinking grease from her white but 
frail body, and covering her with his outer raiment, they hud- 
dled together in their misery. 

David was lost in thought. He was making plans for 
escape and wished to save them all. About one hundred souls 
were there, among whom were children in arms. 

Those people of God hallowed the air with their prayers, 



The Bishop of Antioch. 


The Count de Latour. 


137 


inspired by the presence of Immortal Mind, and were content 
to die. They believed it a privilege to die for Christ. In solo 
Deo Salus. Only one of them murmured at her fate. That 
was Arminus. She was approaching death. Something told 
her innocent soul to live on, hence the moans which escaped her. 
The Bishop, with spiritual insight, saw her condition and prayed 
for strength to go through the terrible ordeal which was before 
him. He had witnessed the death of her mother, who had con- 
fessed an awful history, dying without finding peace, and he 
promised to protect the daughter. 

“Let us consider together,” he said, aloud, standing in their 
midst with crozier in his hand, looking like a prophet of the 



The Emperor Domitian. David the Spartan. 

patriarchal age, “how we may with dignity escape this unjust 
death.” 

Thereupon David arose, as a giant of the Neolithic age, 
and exclaimed: “I will do it alone, single-handed. 1 have 
fought the lion in his lair, wrestled with the tigers in the arena 
at Ephesus, and crushed my antagonist in the gladiatorial con- 
test at Alexandria, where I became a Christian. The fatal 
question was put to me, Diana or Christ? In choosing the 
latter, I escaped to Byzantium. ’ ’ 

The intrepid man was bent on saving them all. He was a 
servant of the Most High, their shield and buckler. 

Upon a paltry excuse, the sentry was called in, and bribed 
by the gift of a denarius offertory, he gave his armor and 
accoutrements to David, who quickly donned them. In this 


138 


The Count de Latour . 


disguise he succeeded in clearing the catacomb gate, and went 
straightway through the viridarium (garden) to the palace. 

At such a moment deception was not the result of moral 
cowardice, when he ordered the Emperor’s physician to hasten 
to the temple of Janus, upon the plea of some one there suffer- 
ing from leprosy, a disease requiring immediate attention. 

In the absence of the physician, and after successful recon- 
naissance, David took the advantage 
and entered the laboratory, stole a 
quantity of poisonous substances, as 
he was skilled in herbs and minerals. 
Armed with rank, deadly poison, he 
retraced his steps to the den of beasts. 
They were ferocious at his intrusion. 

“They looked like Phantoms.” He fearleggly placed poigon Qn bones 

that lay strewn at his feet and skilfully threw them at their 
ravenous jaws. They licked the bones and soon were in the 
throes of death. 

He went to the Christians, and they followed him through 
the den, passing into the open arena under the blue canopy of 
heaven. The moon shone clearly, flooding the place with efful- 
gent silvery light. They cared not for their appearance — they 
looked like phantoms flitting in the 
moonlight. The sentinels at the vomitor- 
ium exit were afraid at the unusual sight 
and fled. The Christians went to the 
quarter of the city where their presby- 
ters dwelt and were safely housed. 

Stalwart and fearless David stayed 
until they got safely away, jeopardizing 
his own life. By so doing he was cap- 
tured. The enemy soon discovered what 
he had done, and wondered how a man 
could be so unselfish and brave. 

Arminus had a woman’s susceptibili- 
ties. She was a girl who admired the 
heroic action, and loved the hero. She 
admired the man who saved their lives at the sacrifice of his own, 
and she immediately became frenzied with grief. A moment later 
she flew back to the arena like a flying dove, in order to share 



“She flew Back to the 
Arena.” 



The Count de Latour. 


139 


his sufferings. This caused the Bishop to marvel greatly at 
unexpected phases of feminine nature. He never anticipated 
anything like that. She became slippery as an eel the moment 
she loved at first sight, and the ardor of David was not less sin- 
cere. Cupid held them captive in the grim presence of death, 
among the tombs of the dead, in the sombre, dismal darkness of 
a dungeon, and under the most inauspicious circumstances. 
Love gave them ethereal wings. Being blind, they saw not 
crudity of dress nor tear-stained eye. 

Nero began the iniquitous Christian persecution, which 
broke out again under Domitian with dreadful cruelty. There- 
fore the Emperor was wroth at the Pretorian guard allowing 
them to escape, and expressed a desire to see David, who was 
so daring. The Pretor of the Capitoline escorted the latter to 
the palace, with the good result of installation in the body- 
guard. The Emperor admired bravery as a virtue to be 
rewarded. 

In this capacity David soon found means to release Armi- 
nus, who repined in the dungeon. Together they visited the 
Bishop and asked his sanction for, and blessing upon, their mar- 
riage, to take place at a convenient season. 

“My duties in the Emperor’s household,” said David to 
the Bishop, “give me a chance to secure the golden cup, and I 
will surreptitiously lay hands upon it.” 

“And I,” added Ar minus, “shall have it used sacredly in 
church, by placing it in the hands of the Pontificus, spes mea 
Christus .” 

After performing the marriage ceremony, the Bishop went 
back to Antioch, as he was the episcopus of that diocese. Ar- 
minus and her husband remained in Rome. 





Chapter XXL Translation of the Parchment ( Concluded ). 

HE children of David and Arminus were 
brought up in the Christian religion, and 
when the Bishop visited them in his de- 
clining years, that prelate was shocked to 
see their eldest girl showing a tendency 
to idealize common handicraft in the form 
of mural and pictorial decoration, the 
new departure of paganism. She labored 
with the Etruscan carvers in the new 
palace with a zeal unbecoming to a woman 
at this trade, making it her idol, as her 
mind was carrried away with the subtle 
harmonies of color. 

At the age of eighteen the little Arminus Secundus — named 
after her mother — was a true type of her people, very perse- 
vering, but she forgot her Christian duties in the adoration of 
her art, which was fascinating but worldly and transient. She 
was a disciple of Parrhasius, a painter who flourished 400 B. C. 

The Bishop perceived her insubordination, and remembered 
the story of her ancestor, Nebuchadnezzar, King of Chaldea, 
600 B. C. ; how he sank to the level of the beasts, and how 
Babylon fell through sin. 

In his retirement, the Bishop had an opportunity of wit- 
nessing that spirit of evil develop and become rampant in the 
flesh, as here recorded in uncial letter by his amanuensis. 

Her first act was one of desecration in the church of 
Christ. For art purposes she required the golden cup which 
was denied her by her parents, as it was considered to be very 
sacred by all members of the Christian faith attached to the 
seven churches. The cup was in safe keeping by the fathers at 
Rome. 

At the new palace of the Emperor she became acquainted 
with a youth of plebeian birth, who was engaged as waxer of 
the floors. She might have chosen a spouse from the aristo- 



The Count de Latour. 


141 



cratic or patrician ranks, but she was most happy among the 
proletarii. 

The parents of the youth had come under the ban of the 
Tribune more than once, and barely escaped having their skulls 
crushed at the Tarpeian rock. Their son held his position 
through the kindness of David, who took pity on his forlorn 
condition, never dreaming what the out- 
come would be. 

The fortunes of the boy Graccus were 
brightening when the skilful and beauti- 
ful daughter of his patron smiled sweetly 
upon him. 

“Graccus,” she said to him one day, 
laying aside her palette, resting from her 
work on the intaglio near the ceiling, and 
looking down from her high ladder-easel 
with a radiant smile, ‘ ‘I want you to mix 
that pigment with its vehicle. Will you 

Arminus the Artist. do SO?” 

“If you show me how, I will do it,” was his brief answer. 

She descended from her elevated position, and smiling 
graciously, placed the muller in his hand, guiding it in a rotary 
motion upon the slab. 

That was their first introduction to each other. The mix- 
ing was repeated. He worked 
with avidity until both found 
themselves very much in each 
other’s society. 

No one thought anything 
of it; there was such a great 
difference between them in 
station and disparity in looks. 

Graccus, poor boy, had few ad- 
vantages. He was ill-favored, 
ignoble and malformed. She had all the advantages Rome 
could offer— was captivating in manner, polite and aesthetic in 
taste, talented and perfect in the Shemitic school of beauty. 

As a matter of course, her parents forbade her to associate 
with him, but she was perverse, and her impetuosity brought 
her to a sad end. 



Parrhasius. 


142 


The Count de Latour. 


The climax was reached when they appeared together in 
church. All training had been useless. She was literally 
throwing herself away. 

The good Bishop ventured some advice. 

“Dear Arminus,” he said, amiably, “heaven has gifted you 
with all a woman can covet. You are comely with perfect 
health, have the rare quality of genius, 
royal blood flows in your veins, yet you 
stoop to associate with an outcast of the 
city.” 

“I love my art, good father,” she 
said, “and I know you despise it. You 
should not countenance the conventional 
laws of society, which give no oppor- 
tunity to those who are not born of 
patrician parents, and you think my art as 
a devil’s gift has dragged me to a wrong 
choice of a husband.” 

“How Babylon Fen.” u Not so, Arminus. I deeply grieve 

to see you carry it too far, by making it your idol. That must 
be so, for you have neglected the communion of the church.” 

“I suppose it is born in me. ” 

“That I quite believe, dear girl, and I beg of you not 
to allow this impulsive art feeling to alienate you from 
Christian duty and obedience. I may add, your parents are 
distressed about you. They 
know that your thoughts are 
lofty, which should keep you 
from degrading yourself. Your 
choice of a husband is not com- 
patible with your elevated ideas. 

The younger children at your 

home look to yOU for guidance. The Tower of Babel. 

Do try and show them a good example, which is better than all 
my precepts.” 

The Bishop left her and went straightway into the refectory. 
Arminus felt humbled at what he had said. She was alive to 
her responsibility, but being young and careless, that humility 
quickly wore off, leaving her the same giddy girl as before. 

At this time the suspicions of the Emperor were aroused 




The Count de Latour. 


143 

against the Christians. He never found the missing cup. It 
mysteriously vanished from his side-board. He blamed the 
Christians, and was so superstitious that he accused them of 
practicing black art and all sorts of jugglery to recover it. 

The political factions of the city were uproarious and dis- 
trustful. His adjudication was questioned. The commerce of 
the Tiber was at a standstill. The popular voice was revolu- 
tionary, being tired of imperial trappings. He sought to 
appease them by replacing the superscription in the Forum. 
“ Vox populi vox Dei. ” 

The Christians always refused to acknowledge the supre- 
macy of the Roman emperors, knowing that Christ alone was 
their King, but were again requested to do so. The Bishop of 
Rome refused to desecrate his church, and positively forbid the 

placing thereon of the spread- 
ing eagle and the legend: u Se- 
natus Populus — que Roryianus ,” 
an elaborate delusion and a 
blind to appease the people. 

The Emperor renewed his 
search for the cup, which put 
the prelates and the Bishop on 
their guard. 

city of Antioch. But there was a wicked 

element at work, much worse than the pagan — an element of 
destruction, the embodiment of all the powers of evil, led by 
the Prince of Darkness, Tatis Viribus. 

The heiress to the ancient Assyrian sceptre planned a bold, 
fearless stroke. She, the Queen, and Graccus, the slave, were 
for the moment a shameless, guilty pair. She wished to obtain 
the cup by strategy and stealth, vainly imagining the Emperor 
would restore it to her. It was really her own property. She 
told that august personage of it being in the church, under close 
guardianship of the verger in the vestry. 

The officiating priests, with their diocesan, also the Bishop 
of Antioch, were at once placed under arrest by the soldiers and 
escorted to the Esquiline prison. The cup was carried to the 
palace. 

The Emperor was a mercenary man. Thinking to destroy 
its sacred charm, thrust it into a crucible and melted it into a 



144 


The Count de Latour. 


solid lump of gold, much to the dismay of the household and 
the superstitious populace. 

David visited the Bishop in his prison. 

“We cannot lose it,” exclaimed the Bishop, “even if it is 
cast into a thousand coins. That gold was given to us in suc- 
cession by the builders of the tower of Babel, through the line 
of Asshur, the kings of Nineveh. It is our emblem of Chris- 
tianity, used in remembrance of Him who died for us. We 
elevate the Host in transubstantiation, saying: ‘ Hoc est corpus 
meum. This is my body/” 

“I believe you are speaking truthfully,” said David. “My 
dear wife felt someone clutching at her neck, and all the chil- 
dren are suffering dreadfully. Ar minus, my daughter, is ill 



upon her couch. She is raving dreadfully at fate, and she con- 
fesses her guilt in bringing this plague upon us. ” 

“To alleviate this,” said the Bishop, “you must, at all 
hazards, secure the gold. It is of vital importance that you 
do so.” 

“To stop so much pain, I will purloin it,” said David, leav- 
ing in haste. 

There was a cloud hanging over the city. The Emperor 
was indisposed, and attributed his illness to atmospheric causes. 
Upon discovering that the gold had been again stolen, he became 
enraged and suffered a relapse. 

It was a happy moment for David’s family when Arminus 
clasped the gold in her right hand. The young girl was gifted. 



The Count de Lcttour . 


145 


Sickness disappeared, much to their agreeable surprise. They 
were Disciples and lived according to the doctrine as written by 
Paulus of Tarsus, the martyr, who said: 

“To another the gifts of healing.” — 1 Corinthians 12:9. 

“To another the working of miracles.” — 1 Corinthians 12:10. 

Fear caused the Emperor to free the prisoners at once. 
The foolish Arminus replaced the sacred gold upon the altar of 
the church, vowing never to touch it again, and it remained in 
that holy edifice. 

At the age of twenty-one Arminus married Graccus. She 
had chosen for herself and could blame no one. 

Her genius carried her to an exalted pitch of excellence, 
but her other sin was serious. She became profane in her art, 
and tried to portray, from the living 
model, the Savior upon the cross. 

It was a regrettable fact that she 
had made a mistake in marrying Grac- 
cus, who was deserving of sympathy. 

He was her slave, the natural outcome 
of such connubial mistakes. Therefore, 
in the vague term, “the fitness of 
things,” she was his queen, soaring 
far above him. He was her inferior, 
crouching below her. 

Crazed by the tie of unequal mar- 
riage, she planned a fearful divorce, 
under the protection of her admiring 
friends, the jeunesse doree of the city. 

She paKially drowned her remorse by imbibing strong 
wine, and was in the amphitheatre seen by all to be a beautiful 
creature, the cynosure of jealous eyes. Against all laws of 
common propriety, she applauded, yea! and without a trace of 
pity on her immobile face, the destruction of the Christians. 

Under pretense of painting the Christ — whose name she 
had so dishonored — her willing husband posed as model, and the 
wicked friends tied him to a cross with leather strips of Behe- 
moth skin to keep him in position. With sardonic pleasure the 
wretched woman laid in the first painting of body-color, when 
her husband pleaded to be released from his uncomfortable 
position, and she laughed a cruel and fiendish laugh. 



146 


The Count de Latour. 


What a model! A dying man upon a cross. It was never 
painted, for she drank herself into insensibility, her genius left 
her, her mind became clouded, and all she could articulate in 
her agony of soul was, “ Peccavi 

The end was near, and she died of no illness, but her spirit 
was called to Him who gave it, and she went through the u visi 
tation of God.” 

When the dissipated men came to jeer at her dying hus- 
band, they stood spellbound at the threshold on seeing Arminus 
a stiffened corpse. They at once loosened the cords of him on 
the cross. He breathed; they gave ^im stimulants. He sur- 
vived, but could not forget his cruel wife. 

The Bishop committed her to the tomb and went back to 
Antioch. 

Part of her story remains untold. The physician whispered 
to the Bishop that secret. If true, her maternity was as secre- 
tive as guilty — a very impious woman who would kill her hus- 
band by starvation, and even had no scruple in strangling her 
own offspring. She certainly was a true disciple of Parrhasius. 

The sun broke through the cloud — the persecution had 
ceased. Domitian sat in the convention of the Augustales, sur- 
rounded by lictors of the Capitol and supported bv centurians 
from the Pretorium. Graccus appeared in the assembly and 
recited his grievance to the Emperor: 

MISERY. 

“The words of my sorrow will soon be told; 

Its painful, sad page will I now unfold, 

And unveil the dark chapters of my life, 

Graven by the will of a wayward wife. 

Calm was her cutting contempt, but she knew 
That I was a good spouse, both honest and true, 

Crushed and subdued by her cold-hearted tongue, 

That stifled the woes from my breast it wrung. 

A glance at her strength, a glance at her eye — 

No slave on her mercy could ever rely. 

A glance at her mien, a glance at her face, 

Showed the scion of nomade kingly race. 

She drew me into the dark mire of sin, 

By the will of her. worldly soul within. 

The poison of evil rankled my heart, 

From fetters of sin I could not depart. 


The Count de Latour. 


14 


Like wild rodent under gaze of a snake, 

Her controlling forces I could not break, 

But writhed in vortex of fascination, 

And slept in trance of wicked relation. 

Brought out were captives who came from afar, 
Taken in the siege of the Dacian war — 

A dejected group, a crestfallen crowd, 

Whose sorrows made their lamentations loud. 

Unhappy they bent under yoke as slaves, 

After wielding spear as valorous braves, 

Defending their kindred in the dire tumult, 
Against battering ram and catapult. 

Martyrs of conscience in white were arrayed, 

To the Redeemer they fervently prayed. 

As menials to cohorts they did linger, 

Until freed by death’s transitory finger. 

Servants of Christ died when licked by the tongue 
Of the flame, devouring the old and young. 

My wife looked with hardened, cruel feature 
Upon the face of every poor creature. 

Her mighty, stern will made me a victim, 
Convulsed under her powerful dictum, 

Until I lay in pain, gasping for breath, 

Ready to welcome the angel of death.” 




Chapter XXII. A Voice from the Vatican. 

[E penetration of the human mind into 
the motives of men who show superiority 
of brain, was developed by the Seers of 
the Ages. They peered into the deep 
recesses of privacy. It is by the same 
agency this shadow is thrown into words, 
and is an extended duplicate of the Roman 
confession, only to disappear when trans- 
lated from Latin. All things are but 
shadows. 

The college of the Propaganda and 
the congregation of the Index instructed 
their librarian to fulfill the duty of recording incidents in the 
life of Raphael Sanzio d’ Urbino, to be placed in the archives of 
the palace of the Vatican, secure from vulgar eyes, as they 
verge on a heresy objectionable to religious life, and the most 
cultivated and pious can be led astray by the peculiar hold it 
takes on their minds. The “art feeling” needs tender treat- 
ment to prevent a soaring into altitudes of exaltation, thereby 
cutting short useful lives by premature decay through the 
medium of a sensitive mind being too highly poised, unfit to 
exist in the tide of common humanity, and tooethereal to gravi- 
tate upon an earth of distress. 

Raphael was a pupil of Perugino and had extraordinary 
talent. He labored at the frescoes of the Vatican, producing 
wonderful effects in grouping. In his work he was conscien- 
tious and quite absorbed in his art. 

Antonio Rene was a retainer at the palace, a servant of his 
holiness, Pope Leo X. Antonio’s daughter, Irene, was a 
sprightly little lady, and a pious sister of the church. She 



The Count de Latour. 


149 


lived at his home in the city and received careful instruction 
from her duenna, a French lady from Paris. 

Raphael and Irene Rene became good friends. Under the 
chaperonage of her duenna they knelt together in the cathedral 
at the celebration of the mass. 

Misguided ambition led the artist into mixed relations. He 
was never content with his models, but the sweet Irene posed 
for him as the Madonna di San Sisto, and the Madonna della 
Seggiola. She was too young for the pose, hence the childish 
expression on those paintings. 

The success of the painter affected his mind so that he rose 
above his fellows and lived a unique personage. After his 
demise, prayer was offered for the repose 
of his soul. Dei gratia. 

His idiocyncracies were without par- 
allel. His almoner hid his short-comings 
out of respect for his great reputation and 
his charitable heart. 

Having a gentle disposition, he was 
loved by all, and no person ever questioned 
his behavior, so Antonio Rene allowed his 
pious and lovely daughter to sit for him 
in order to produce the pictures, now in 
the Pitti palace at Florence. 

He had a fellow-pupil and school-mate named Gaspard 
David, who studied with him in the chamber appropriated for 
that purpose in the Vatican, as well as that holy place, the 
Sistine chapel, the decoration of which was commenced by 
Michael Angelo. 

Gaspard was a long way behind Raphael in his art, and 
also in disposition, for he was ill-tempered and sought to impose 
upon everybody. 

Antonio Rene was under obligations to Gaspard, who was 
his cousin. They staked their money at the gaming table and 
the former became a heavy debtor. 

The beautiful model sat peacefully, until jealousy prompted 
Gaspard to try and win her for himself. So he went to her 
father very hopefully: 

“Give me Irene in marriage, and I will not press the judi- 
cial action against you for the recovery of the money you owe me.” 




150 


The Count de Latour. 


“Be patient, Gaspard,” replied her father, “and I will pay 
you all.” 

“Will you keep her from the studio of Raphael?” 

“I cannot promise such a thing. Her confessor would 
make inquiry, and I would be severely censured and repri- 
manded.” 

Much to Irene’s annoyance, Gaspard forced his suit upon 
her with the air of one who has a right to command obedience. 

The critics o£ Florence sent a commission to Gaspard to 
paint figures for the palace, and with cool effrontery he asked 
Irene to pose for him, and she refused. 

Raphael heard of this and was willing to assist Gaspard. 
He knew that the Florentines demanded fine work. He was 
acquainted with their city and was a favorite with Fra Barto- 
lommeo, who lived there. That artist’s 
flesh tints, it was said, were superior to 
those of Leonardo da Vinci. 

The two artists set themselves to 
work, drawing from casts, and they 
labored together in perfect rivalry, but 
Gaspard could not surpass Raphael, al- 
though the former was perfect in his 
lines. He produced fair copies of the 
antique. That was the limitation of his 
skill. 

They found it advantageous to bring 
in life models. One girl, especially hand- 
some, and colloquial in speech, made her 
appearance. She issued from the poorer part of Rome, and 
startled the artists with her ignorance of what was required of 
her, as she had never posed. Her features were Asiatic, and 
behind the soft, downcast eyes there lay a story which the fine 
lashes, fringing them like lace, could not hide. This under- 
current gave animation to her symmetrical form as she stood 
unconsciously outrivaling the marble there. 

“We will make everything agreeable,” said Gaspard to 
her, “please prepare for the sitting.” 

“She gazed at him, inquiringly, as she seated herself on a 
curule chair, and became motionless, like one in a trance. 

“I am afraid,” she said, with an effort, “and I am so poov 




The Count de Latour. 


151 


that I require the money you will pay me. Why did I come 
here ?” 

“You came to pose,” answered Raphael, kindly, “and if 
you do so we will pay you double, for we see in you the model 
we require.” 

“We wish to reproduce a goddess,” added Gaspard, “and 
with respect ask you to accede to our request. We want purity 
and transparency of flesh tint, to stand out lifelike in juxta- 
position to the Greek robe of flowing drapery, which gives 
values in opaque contrast.” 

“My punishment is penury,” she murmured, relapsing 
into listlessness. 

“That will not prevent you becoming a model,” said 
Raphael. “I am sure your presence does 
not betray such guilt as to make you 
uneasy.” 

“How can I redeem it?” she cried, 
excitedly. “It was a sacred thing, be- 
longing to another family.” 

“Let us get it for you.” 

“Too late.” 

“That is unfortunate. Who has it?” 

“Cardinal Bibbienna.” 

“Is it of great value?” 

“It is a chaplet of gold.” 

The poor girl became emotional, and 
rose from her seat, as though a heavy load was taken from her, 
and in a graceful manner related the story of the chaplet by a 
tongue at once musical and loquatious: 

“It belonged to Antonio Rene’s father. My mother felt 
an incessant inclination to steal it, and at a fatal moment suc- 
cumbed to that wicked thought. Our downfall began at that 
moment. My father had reverses, and my mother had restless 
nights with fearful dreams. My brothers and sisters took on 
the purple robe of unrighteousness. An infidelity crept in 
which estranged us from Right. We suffered privation, and 
when at the lowest ebb of misery, a ray of light penetrated the 
gloom, and a voice within urged me to seek the advice of 
Raphael. I obeyed, and entered here as a model, as I could 
not gain admittance otherwise.” 





152 


The Count de Latour. 


“What shall I do to relieve your family?” asked Raphael. 

“Give it back to the family of Antonio Rene,’’ she replied, 
timidly, with tears in her eyes, “with an amende honorable .” 

Raphael hurried to the home of his betrothed, Maria di 
Bibbienna, the niece of the Cardinal, and related to that prelate 
the story he had just heard. The Cardinal immediately handed 
the chaplet to him, who went at once to its rightful owner, 
Antonio Rene, who, in his turn, presented it to his daughter, 
Irene. 

Antonio declared that it had belonged to former Popes, and 
somehow it always came back to the family. Its vicissitudes 
were many. It had been sold, resold and stolen quite often. 

In painting from the living model, Raphael had educated 
his mind to create human perfection by elevating his own soul. 

He saw the faulty model before him, 
and had the power to idealize upon it. 
Gaspard could not perfect his lines from 
an imperfect model, and had made a 
failure in painting the form and face of 
Christ. How could he do so while hold- 
ing in thought the character of Judas? 

Gaspard continued his importuni- 
ties for the hand of Irene, making her 
father frantic. She refused to pose for 
him, as he was driving her father to a 
premature grave. She hated Gaspard 
with a bitter aversion, and matters 
were becoming quite serious. 

“Master Raphael,” she said one day, “I am nearly heart- 
broken, and I want you to make the picture very perfect to 
teach Gaspard a lesson in humility.” 

“How am I to do so, dear Irene, unless you continue as my 
model?” he answered. “There are none in the city equal to 
you.” 

Irene Rene’s fortitude was put to the test. Her duty to 
her father, her love for Raphael, and her youthful inexperience 
were sufficient excuse. Her father was driven to desperation 
by Gaspard, who wished to marry her. 

A pang of jealousy entered Raphael’s heart, for he began 
to love his model, and to protect her from Gaspard. This love 



St. Peter’s Cathedral. 


The Count de Latour. 


153 


expanded in his sensitive soul, so that he produced the most 
wonderful masterpieces. 

“I will work hard to make your father happy, and to pre- 
vent further annoyance from Gaspard,” he said. 

Irene began to pose, while Raphael prepared his palette. 
She was child-like. Her form was superior to any he had ever 
seen. There was a rare, subtle beauty about her that was cap- 
tivating. Her contour and curves were perfect as she stood 
upon the throne, like a goddess. Her costume was ornamented 
with lace, and hung from her shoulders in delightful neglege, 
leaving her neck semi-decollette. 

As the artist was working he observed a peculiar mark on 
her neck, half-way round. That was the only blemish he could 
see, and he made a note of it in his book. 

After a few sittings he finished the picture with decisive 
and masterly stroke, and sent it secretly to Florence, where it 
was purchased at once on the recommendation of the dilettanti. 

The anger of Gaspard was intense. His impotent cry 
for vengeance fell on deaf ears, as he had no one to torment, 
for Raphael had liquidated the debt of Antonio Rene. 

(Here the writing is made illegible 
by the claw of the raven.) 

and she, his widow, went to France. He died at the age of 
thirty-seven, April 6th, 1520. Gaspard followed her, still 
revengeful. He had brought the censure of the church upon 
him. 

Raphael’s heresy was called into question. He tried to 
obtain inspiration in his paintings by other means than the way 
the church sanctioned. His mind soared into celestial spheres, 
too high for him, bringing himself en rapport with angels. 
He assumed that art was as high a study as holy Scripture. 
His ideality being paramount, brought out the idea that inspira- 
tion in art was as logical as the inspiration of the apostolic 
writings. 

In the year 1514, August 1st, he received his Papal brief as 
architect of St. Peter’s. His body lies in the Pantheon, in our 
holy city. Conquiescat in pace . 


Chapter XXIII. The Writing from the Coffin. 


S I am a prisoner in the temple, very little 
mind have I to write my experiences, and 
of the heartless treatment I received at 
the hands of Napoleon, whose real char- 
acter was known to few. He was secre- 
tive and unduly ambitious. 

My father ano he were companions 
at Auxconne, but I was too young then to 
know that he was intriguing, and that he 
took a hand in the revolution, a deep- 
stained, red hand in the reign of terror. 
Policy changed him, and he swept his 
friends by grapeshot down to death. 

It happened that my mother and Josephine, Viscountess de 
Beauharnais, were intimate, when the latter came under the 
notice of Bonaparte. 

Napoleon was unscrupulous and vain. He had the effron- 
tery to pay his addresses to me, a young girl and a debutante, 
at the same time paying petits soins to Josephine at Madame 
Tallien’s receptions. 

“Mademoiselle,” said he to me, blandly, “you are very 
reserved for a French woman, or you would proudly boast of 
the way your father became a Count.” 

“I believe, general,” I answered, “that he gained his dis- 
tinctive prefix through the spurs of his ancestors. The De 
Latours followed Charlemagne and Godfrey de Bouillon to the 
Holy Land.” 

“How obscure my birth is compared to that,” he mur- 
mured. 

“I am sorry to see you put so much stress upon birth, 
when you have nothing to complain of. My father says you 
have shown ability in arms, and are booked for advancement.” 



The Count de Latour. 


155 


“Surely, I can be more successful than Joan of Arc. She 
was a mere girl.” 

I was hurt at this uncalled for reference to the maid of 
Orleans, 

“Ah! your despise women. She was inspired and holy,” I 
exclaimed, indignantly. 

“An exceptional event.” 

“General Bonaparte, I trust you do not forget the heroines 
of history. ” 

“No, but I think prophecy comes true. In the case of 
Joan it does so. Merlin was a great oracle in the middle ages. 
At the close of his prophecy by the Druidical doctrine, he saw 
the war of the twelve signs of the zodiac, and the descent of the 
virgin upon the back of Sagettarius, the archer. The peoplo 
read in the words that a maiden would put 
under her feet all men that draw the bow. 

“What a prophecy! How true it 
came.” 

“Certainly, but what is more re- 
markable, Joan of Arc was born Janu- 
ary 6th, 1412, the date recognized as 
authentic by the eastern Christians of 
Greece and Kussia as being the same day 
upon which Jesus was born.” 

“That is profane,” I exclaimed. 

“Her religious philosophy,” contin- 

-,-r* , £ , . . , , , Aut Cassar, aut nullus.” 

ued Bonaparte, “was original, and not as 

we would have it. She bore on her armor the initials “J. D.,” 

which means justice and duty.” 

“And her life paid the forfeit,” I added. 

“I am a Frenchman by adoption, no longer a Corsican. 
You know that Galilee was colonized by the Gauls, our old 
name. Jesus was born among our people .” 

“You are trifling with sacred subjects,” I interrupted, 
rising to leave him. 

“Would you silence me, Mademoiselle — prevent me think- 
ing and imprison my mind?” he defiantly asked. 

At this outburst I took a seat on the verenda. He walked 
to the other end of the garden and rested against a pedestal. 
Its vase was filled with flowers. He looked upon the ground 



156 


The Count de Latour. 


in moody silence, presenting a picture in which I noticed that 
he was a stunted man, with a depth in him I could not fathom. 
He had said in my hearing that it was preferable to be the head 
of a cat than the tail of a lion. Intellectually, I was no match 
for him, yet I congratulated myself that I caused him to think I 
had understood all he had said. Such was my vanity. 

The man of destiny was lost in thought. He was alone — 
unique, not one person had he to sympathize with. A girl like 
me could not possibly take interest in his talk. It was above 
my comprehension. He was a disciple of Rousseau. 

‘‘Have you no pity?” he asked, despairingly, coming to 
where I was seated. 

u Whv should I have pity?” 

“You are surrounded with everything to amuse you; 
friends who understand you, and every wish anticipated.” 

“Has General Bonaparte nothing to amuse him?” 

“Nothing,” he said, bitterly. “I am sadly alone and at 
times feel I have no right to live 
on the earth; that I am incompe- 
tent. The students at Brienne 
testified to that long ago.” 

How can you say so?” I 
objected, in astonishment, “when 
the National Assembly accepted 
you, and the convention has just 
appointed you general-in-chief of the army of the Interior.” 

“It is love I long for,” he replied, with bitter emphasis, 
“the love of a kindred soul, one of equal aspirations to mine, 
and I cannot find it.” His countenance became stern as he con- 
tinued: “Men I hate, I crush, I subdue — they are my slaves. 
But women I cannot conquer. They bewitch me, and I am at 
their feet.” 

“You must control yourself,” I said. “I am sure my 
father and young Barras esteem you highly.” 

When he relapsed into silence I called to mind the stories 
I had heard of his stern discipline. He commanded obedience 
and punished his rank and file for every trifling error. My 
father was the reverse. Ho was forgiving and had the love of 
his soldiers. They feared Napoleon, who had a wonderful con- 
trol of his command. He was foremost in every action. Being 



The Count de Latour. 


157 


short in stature, I supposed the enemy fired over his head. 
Such was my girlish idea. 

Shortly afterwards I saw him and Josephine together. She 
answered his questions, falling in with his talk. He spake con- 
tinually of Alexander, Hannibal and other heroes. I was 
amused to see the little man posing as a hero, and I often 
laughed outright, forgetting my manners. He seemed so fool- 
ish as he stood in position with rapier at attack. 

He labored hard to become genteel, and never succeeded. 
I thought him dwarfed. If the padding had been taken out of 
his uniform, I verily believe he would have made a poor look- 
ing man. 1 * 

I knew nothing about men’s brains, combative strategic 
organs, firmness or continuity of purpose, or I would have been 
more charitable in my judgment of so 
great a man. I was guided by my im- 
pressions, and I had no cause to think 
him great. Perhaps familiarity bred 
contempt. I crossed him once. 

‘‘Mademoiselle de Latour,” said he, 

“allow me to accompany you to Ver- 
sailles. The drive through Sevres is very 
pleasant.” 

“I cannot go without my mother.” 

“Surely, your mother can trust me.” 

“Not at all,” I answered, thinking 
his proposal very insulting. “Besides, 
you are too gloomy for my taste, always 
distressing me with phantoms of the past.” 

“Indeed!” he murmured, “how sorry 
born to trouble you.” 

“Pray do not insult me,” I said, in anger. 

“I am like a fish out of water, and can only be happy in 
the midst of warfare’s carnage.” 

“You are a perfect fiend to speak so. The story is surely 
true that you wage war upon your own poor soldiers.” 

“Mademoiselle, cease, I pray. My men are born to be 
ruled. It was ever so from the beginning of time. I will dis- 
close to you a secret. I was treated like a cur when I joined 
the French army, and made into a menial at every possible 



“Dabit Deus his quoque 
finem.'’ 


I am to have been 



158 


The Count de Latour. 


chance. I vowed a vow of dire vengeance — to make them fight 
for me unto the end. France owes me much, but her officers 
owe me more.” 

“You are unforgiving and cruel.” 

At my remark he became angry. He closed his thin lips 
and choked down the words with which he was about to abuse 
me. His brow contracted and his chin protruded. The blood 
mantled his cheek. He angrily unbuckled his stock and loosened 
his doublet to breathe more freely. Then I was truly afraid, 
when he clenched his hand and muttered: “Death to the dogs. ” 

I had reason to know afterwards what he meant, to my 
sorrow. 





Chapter XXIV. The W kiting from the Coffin ( Continued ). 

REMEMBER my mother telling me about 
the revolution of 1789. She lived at Mar- 
seilles, and witnessed the debarkation of 
galley slaves, who were hustled ashore. 
They came from Toulon, to be pressed 
into service. There was no hope for the 
poor prisoners when pressed by the con- 
scription. They were to become soldiers 
under Captain Clary, who had been sud- 
denly promoted on account of being a 
disciplinarian and a friend of Bonaparte. 

She was introduced to Monsieur de 
Lawnay, Governor of the Bastile, who 
brought recruits to Marseilles to be drafted to Paris. She 
closely watched De Lawnay and Captain Clary, who were 
engaged in more than the ordinary transfer of lists. 

With a pale and determined face, Clary pointed his finger 
to his superior officer, General Boauharnais. Then she saw 
De Lawnay regard Clary with surprise. 

Surely there were secrets between them, and she mentioned 
the fact to my father, who was on fatigue duty, and he covered 
his face with his hands. She knew he was hurt, and suspected 
treachery. 

Governor De Lawnay was invited to stay at my father’s 
residence as his guest. During dinner, my mother made this 
thoughtful observation : “Yours was a painful duty, Governor, 
and I am sure you pitied those conscripts. ” 

“It was not so much the conscripts I pitied, Madame,” he 



160 


The Count de Latvia . 


answered, nervously, “as something of a private nature which 
is troubling me.” 

“You are tired, Governor,” said my father “take some 
wine.” 

He tried to shake off his fit of nervousness, but failed. 
The wine made him worse. 

Observing him button the flap of his vest pocket with par- 
ticular care, my mother felt sure he had incriminating docu- 
ments there. My father was wide awake, and he also had seen 
the suspicious movements of the Governor, suspecting mischief 
in the air. He mistrusted him, whose countenance so clearly 
betrayed guilt. 

General de Beauharnais came to our house, and immediately 
dispatched De Lawnay to the fortress of the garrison for the 
countersignature of the lists, in his own 
equipage, which was waiting at the door. 

“Captain de Latour,” said he, after 
the Governor had gone, “the Sergeant of 
the guard has pressed me to reprimand 
Captain Clary for breach of discipline. 

The Sergeant-Major has entered in the 
report book that Clary gave vent to fear- 
ful oaths in the hearing of the men.” 

“I will support you in the court-mar- 
tial,” answered my father. “1 suspect he 
is antagonistic towards us, and has compromised himself with 
the Governor.” 

“That is why I came to you. My aide-de-camp saw an 
exchange of papers, accompanied with suspicious movements.” 

“I saw him point to you, General,” my mother excitedly 
exclaimed. 

“Breathe not one word, dear Madame,” said the General to 
her, placing his hand kindly on her head. “These are troublous 
times, and we must be discreet in our remarks.” 

She felt his hand tremble, and never forgot his look of 
uneasiness and fear. 

“Captain de Latour,” he said, “we must save ourselves by 
immediate action.” 

“I felt it was serious,” said my father, falling into a chair 
and trembling with fear. 



The Count de Latour. 


161 


My mother’s womanly instinct came to ward off danger. 
She gained courage and went to the house of Madame Beau- 
harnais, and found that lady anything but at ease. She paled 
and looked askance as my mother entered. 

“Do you know,” began my mother, “if Captain Clary 
intends going to Paris shortly?” 

“No, Madame, I do not know his movements,” she 
answered, coldly. 

“I merely thought,” continued my mother, “that he might 
have dropped a word to that effect. As you told me you were 
going to see your daughter, I thought he might perhaps ” 

“Accompany me?” 

“Yes, escort and protect you on the journey.” 

“1 cannot accept the services of a man my husband dis- 
likes. My husband is jealous of all my acquaint- 
ances.” 

The indelicate woman was fast becoming 
estranged from her husband. My mother knew 
that Clary was a cat’s-paw in the hands of a 
man whom she dared not mention (Napoleon). 
Josephine was in the toils of a guilty conscience. 

When my mother returned home she found 
De Lawnay and the General engaged at the 
Br word, ^ear 0116 card table, with my father as an onlooker. 

Madame There was a game of dissembling that evening, 
as the best wine was brought in by the Corporal. The Governor 
indulged freely. He became drowsy, and retired. 

After a short, anxious interval, my father went to see the 
sleeping man. On coming back, reported that all was well. 

“Good!” exclaimed General Beauharnais, who at once went 
to the sleeper, and on coming back he held a crumpled letter in 
his hand. It was tied with red string and a heavy seal covered 
the fastening. It was a fatal document, that sealed letter (lettre 
de cachet'). 

My father did a strange thing. He emptied the wine into 
the cuspidor. They had drugged the Governor in order to 
get that fatal letter. General Beauharnais became pale on read- 
ing it. He kept the contents to himself, and burnt it by the 
flame of the lamp. 

The next morning the Governor was precipitate in 



162 


The Count de Latour. 


his leave-taking. Another intrigue was nipped in the bud. 

The military commission required my father’s services in 
Paris, to take command in defense of the Tuileries, which the 
mob had attacked. 

Ho took apartments in Boulevard St. Germain, and at the 
first opportunity visited the Governor of the Bastile. 

What a dreadful looking place it was! that citadel and state 
prison, surrounded by a wide ditch. There were eight large, 
round towers, five stories high, with walls twelve feet thick. 
In these towers were many cells for prisoners. The inmates 
were noblemen, authors and politicians who had not been legally 
convicted of crime, but were victims of jealousy or political 
despotism. The only formula used in condemning a man to the 
Bastile was the sealed letter, like that 
taken from the Governor’s pocket. 

“Is Captain Clary in Marseilles?” 
asked the Governor of my father. 

“No, he is in Paris, going about in- 
cognito,” was my father’s answer. 

“And I might add,” Said the GOV- “He Struck a Fearful Blow.” 
ernor, “meddling with state affairs, urged on by Josephine, the 
wife of his superior officer.” 

“Startling imprudence!” 

“I know also, that he gives the secret police state secrets, 
and the authorities cannot account for the clameur puhlique and 
violence of the people.” 

“You know that the General is his enemy,” said my father. 

“Too well do I know that. I was prevented from giving a 
sealed letter to the Assembly.” 

“Please explain.’ 

“Captain Clary filed erroneous charges against the Gen- 
eral, ordered his arrest and incarceration, placing the letter in 
my hands. That letter disappeared.” 

“It was your duty,” said my father, “to arrest the Gen- 
eral on the word of Captain Clary.” 

“Yes, but I suspected his motives. He wished the General 
out of the way, so that the military commission would elevate 
him to be your commander.” 

Do you think the General is in danger?” asked my father, 
alarmed. 



The Count de Latour. 


163 


“I do. Please give him warning. I have refused to aid 
Clary in arresting him, and expect to suffer the consequences,” 
was his answer. 

The initiative step in the revolution was taken soon after. 
The booming of cannon was heard in the direction of the Bastile, 
and the guard of the Tuileries was ordered to proceed at 
once and defend that fortress against the attacking force, 
which could not be driven back. The soldiers were enraged 
and hungry for destruction. Dissatisfaction was universal. 
My father barely escaped with his life in defending the Bastile. 
He knew the secret of its destruction, and who advised the 
attack (Napoleon). July 14th, 1789., was a terrible day for 
them. 

The mob destroyed a toute outrance , what they long had 
hated, and it passes comprehension why they slew that noble 
man, Governor de Lawnay. He was, as many others were, a 
marked man for death, and he died by the suborned hand of the 
guilty assassin. 

My father was taken home wounded. He said that several 
fierce men were determined on having his life. One especially 
was thirsting for his blood. He struck a fearful blow, my 
father fell. The flash of powder revealed the face of his assail- 
ant, as the crowd thrust him out of sight. The hand of the 
would-be murderer belonged to a man who had lost all sense of 
honor, and whose esteem for Josephine made him her willing 
slave. The hand which dealt that coup de main was that of 
Captain Clary. 




Chapter XXV. The Writing from the Coffin {Concluded). 

APTAIN CLARY was Napoleon’s evil 
genius. They met at the house of Mon- 
sieur Clary, a brother of the Captain. 
Joseph and Napoleon Bonaparte became 
inmates of the house of their host, who 
was a soap-boiler. Captain Clary found 
in them willing pupils, who listened to 
the virtues of Josephine and the failings 
of her husband, the General. 

Napoleon made his first successful 
mark at Toulon. The allies withdrew 
in December, 1793, and Toulon fell. 

Events in Paris came to a fearful crisis, when Robespierre 
repaid the services of Bonaparte by making him Brigadier- 
General. The 6th February, 1794, was the day. General 
and Madame Beauharnais were taken prisoners by the insti- 
gators of the revolution, and my mother pleaded for the Gen- 
eral’s life in vain, but Josephine got her freedom. 

The Convention was controlled by an evil spirit. They 
discovered that my mother was an aristocrat, and thrust her 
into prison without trial. 

The raging mob was frantic, and I could not visit anyone, 
not even my father, who had partially recovered, and was on 
duty night and day. The prisons were surrounded by soldiers 
holding loaded guns and bayonets fixed. I became almost as 
frantic as the rest. The guillotine was severing heads every 
day, and I could get no information. To my sorrow, I discov- 
ered that my dear mother and General Beauharnais were inno- 
cent victims in that reign of terror. 



The Count de Tat our. 


165 


I did not know that she had been beheaded by the guillo- 
tine, when I was standing in front of the Hotel de Ville on that 
fearful day, the ever to be remembered 4th October, 1795. It 
was there 1 saw Napoleon in command of the troops. He was 
commander of the garrison at Paris. The smell of powder and 
the booming of cannon were everywhere, grapeshot laid low the 
revolutionists. The streets were cleared. The national guard 
disbanded, and thus in bloodshed and carnage ended the revo- 
lution. 

I called on him at the Tuileries to ascertain the truth about 
my mother. He was busy. Many officers were there. He was 
calm and serene. They were excited and wondered at my 
temerity in seeking an interview with the great man. I pushed 
my way in, and he saw my altercation with his officers. “Ah! 
Mademoiselle, is that you?” he exclaimed, 
and rising, asked me to follow him into 
his private office. 

He was somewhat changed. His feat- 
ures had lost their youthful expression, the 
lines were hard, his brow furrowed as the 
shaggy eyebrows knit together in his pene- 
trating look. The firmness of the lips did, 
not hide the drooping ends of his mouth, 
betraying misery. His nose and chin 
marked a dominant will, and I failed to 
see a redeeming point, one single virtue 
to offset that accumulation of forbidding 
evils. His dreamy outre aspect was void 
of sympathy, and his visage was like a barren steppe. His first 
words were an index to his soul. They cut me to the heart. 
He knew that I had come to inquire about the fate of my 
mother. 

“Do you still ignore me?” he asked. 

“General Bonaparte!” I exclaimed, not heeding his untimely 
question, “I desire merciful treatment at your hands. Was my 
mother destroyed by the guillotine ?” 

“I regret having to say that your fears are well founded,” 
was his indifferent answer. 

I burst into tears. He regarded me with slight surprise; 
even a cynical smile swept over his countenance. He was heart- 



‘As Frantic as the Rest 


166 


The Count de Latour . 


less, for I had seen him shooting down the people in cold blood. 
He strode his horse that day like Apollyon in Hades. 

“I renew my proposal,” he said, slowly, “and will confer 
with your father at once.” 

“I cannot marry one whom I cannot esteem,” I answered, 
with decision. 

“In an instance of this kind, Mademoiselle, I cannot force 
you, but 1 ask you to reconsider your answer. Your mother 
bid me give this box into your own hand. It contains a chap- 
let, which belonged to her mother. ” 

“You saw her before she died?” 

“Certainly, I did,” was his candid answer. 

I was broken-hearted when I left him. He never showed 
any pity for me in my distress, as he bid me good-bye in a cold 
and formal manner. 

On the morning of the 9th March, 1796, my father and I 

were at his wedding. We went 
from policy. He married Jose- 
phine, the widow of General 
Viscompte Alexandre de Beau- 
harnais, who was so recently 
beheaded. 

At that assemblage I met 
Captain La Rouge, who began 
paying his addresses to me, and 

“Buried with Military Honors.” in due courge of time we were 

married in the cathedral of Notre Dame. 

My husband and I were staunch adherents to the Bourbon 
cause, and we feared that Bonaparte would throw France into 
useless war with our neighbors. He had the soldiers at his call, 
and we laid down a safer policy for our beloved country. 

In the year 1800 our enemy became ruler of France in spite 
of our efforts. He took up his residence in the palace of the 
Tuileries, where Josephine presided over a gay, extravagant 
court with great eclat. 

We, who belonged to the army circles, having some influ- 
ence with the people, were invited to all the receptions given 
there. 

Bonaparte flirted with me again. He looked insignificant 
beside my husband. Madame Bonaparte was unhappy in : 11 



The Count de Latour. 


167 


her finery. Her careworn look was hid by cosmetics. She had 
secrets to hide, and audaciously questioned me to find out if 1 
knew any of them. I had made her acquaintance before, and 
was sure (from what my mother had told me) that it was she 
who had urged Captain Clary to slay my father at the storming 
of the Bastile. She could not face me. She was culpable, and 
I did not envy her as the wife of Napoleon. 

“Through my advice,” said Napoleon, seriously, “the 
Directory sent a sword to your father, declaring him to be the 
first grenadier of France.” 

“My father abhors flattery,” I replied, promptly. 

“He refused it, much to my annoyance, sending it back 
with the words: ‘Among we soldiers there is neither first nor 
last.’” 

“I am glad,” I said, firmly. “He is independent and asks 
no favors from Napoleon Bonaparte.” 

“You do not recognize me as the head of France?” he 
inquired. 

“Not at all,” I replied, with decision. 

“My forte is war,” he exclaimed, “and war upon my 
enemies.” 

The Directory, who had sent the sword, fell November 9th 
the previous year. 

A heavy blow fell upon us shortly after this interview. 
Couriers brought news from Bavaria that my father, Count de 
Latour, had been killed at the battle of Oberhausen, in the 
engagement of June 27th. He was buried with military honors. 
A monument is erected where he fell, and his heart was em- 
balmed and kept in a silver vase, and carried by his company. 

In the cathedral of Notre Dame, the archbishop spake kind 
words of consolation to me. Tears came to his eyes when he 
told me he had known my mother. He held my chaplet in his 
hand, and said that it once belonged to an Italian woman, and 
and that it was once owned by the church, and he further 
advised me to allow no one to handle it who was not a Christian. 

“Father,” I said, “the man at the head of France has had it 
in his possession.” 

“Has he? Then I fear misfortune will follow. I know it 
should have been kept out of his hands.” 

I was unhappy, because my mother was buried without 


168 


The Count de Latour. 


religious rites. Whoever thinks her guilty of wrong-doing 
may read this: She was innocent, slain to hide a secret, a vic- 
tim of state, arrested under false accusation. When she awakes 
from the dead at the sound of the last trumpet, I wish her to 
know that the chaplet is in my possession, and that I ignored 
the advances of Napoleon through her advice. 

As our impressions cannot be destroyed, nor thought be 
eliminated from space, knowing that there is no vacuum in 
nature, and that the emanations of our souls are impressed upon 
the ether of eternity, my husband and I have determined on the 
best means of reaching my mother, and in accordance with 
those thoughts, will place this writing in her own hand. 

Bonaparte, the despot, is keeping us prisoners in the Tem- 
ple. Josephine, his wife, comes to ask forgiveness, and con- 



“At Malmaison.” 

fesses a very painful story with regard to the beheading of her 
first husband, and the death of De Lawnay. What is more 
heart-rending, she mentions my dear mother’s name, and weeps 
bitterly. 

She admitted that Napoleon was a curious combination of 
craft, subtlety and ambition, and that she had made a mistake, 
and was miserable in her home at Malmaison. 

He visited her incognito. When he came to me, like a lost 
but menacing spirit, he played with the chaplet like a child. 
He was mysteriously drawn towards it, feeling at ease with it 
in his hands. Away from it, he was the most miserable man 
living, given to the utterance of strange philippics. He sat 


The Count de Lcitour. 


169 


gazing at Captain La Rouge, my husband, in that fear which 
caused him to place us within prison walls. His alarmed look 
was met by the calm dignity of superior intelligence, which 
could not stoop to his level. We knew not the cause of our 
confinement. The imperial court refused to hear the voice of 
the Procureur of the King, whom we had retained. 

After his return from the battle of Wagram, he divorced 
himself from Josephine, December 16th, 1809, with the excuse 
of consolidating his dynasty. He wanted an heir to assume 
authority over France, and married Maria Louisa, daughter of 
the Emperor Francis, April 2d, 1810. Then his power began 
to decline. 

At this moment my husband goes to the cemetery with this 
parchment, and 1 have just heard that my father’s name has 
been called on the roll for the last time. His company revered 
his memory. His name was called at roll, when the oldest ser- 
geant answered, “Died in the field of honor.” 

This is the year 1814, and Napoleon has been taken to Elba, 
a prisoner, dishonored and alone. 

Julie La Rouge (nee De Latour). 


Ct Routes les (Sloires be la ^ance. 





Chapter XXVI. Testimony of the Prince of India. 




fO back to Thibet!” exclaimed the metropoli- 
tan of Moscow to me. 

“Go back!” reiterated General Peter- 
hoff, Chief of Police, adding: “The pur- 
lieus of Constantinople are open to our secret ser- 
vice, and we can bring to a clear issue the mystery 
of any Turkish home. 

“You undertake the difficult solution of the mystery?” I 
asked, dubiously. 

“Certainly,” they both answered, deliberately. 

I returned to my home at Thibet, to ponder over a curious 
piece of information I had received from Moscow. My servant 
wrote me of a plot to break the laws of God by cold-blooded 
murder. I left that note in the hands of the two gentlemen 
above mentioned. 

I was born on the banks of the Ganges, and took the solemn 
oath as hereditary priest of the temple. Several tribes of the 
wildest people came under my dominion as Grand Lama. 
Many were more than ordinarily gifted in occult science, and 
folk-lore of ancient India. They took pride in the black art, 
some starving themselves to emaciation in trying to discover the 
world beyond. 

Gautama Buddha was our authority, but those nomades of 
the jungle were weak followers. It was my painful duty to 
preside over their antics, which I viewed with feeling akin to 
abhorrence. 

Among the few men of European education I moved. Our 
aspirations were far above the common castes. We were a club 
for scientific research, similar to that of the Royal Society, 


The Count de Latour. 


171 


London. We labored in the pure air of the Himalaya moun- 
tains at Lassa, hoping to commune with intelligences known 
among Christians as guardian angels, but forbidden in the codes 
of the church, and mentioned in the Bible as familiar spirits. 

The language of the Buddhist religion is sacred, and called 
Pali. The Vedas are our books, and our most sacred retreat is 
the Hinis monastery in Thibet, the only spot closed to the eyes 
of the inquisitive world. 

I heard from Moscow. The police had unearthed a portign 
of the mystery. It was in connection with Bonaparte’s entry 
and retreat from that city. He left behind him strange memen- 
toes in the form of doubtful doings by a member of his wife’s 
family. His name was Eugene Beauharnais. In 1812 he was 
given command of the French army which invaded Russia. 

“His nephew, a son of Hortense,” wrote the metropolitan 
to me, “was engaged to a lady whose 
family were objectionable to the Bona- 
partes, for a reason known only to them- 
selves. 

“Eugene took a rash step with the 
young man, by sending him to a Russian 
fortress, and by imperial orders the fam- 
ily of the young lady were for a time cap 
tives in the Kremlin. Such barbarous 
measures were futile. It is written in the 
army records that this nephew killed his 
jailer with a tour de force and escaped. 

He was pardoned by Czar Alexander I, » Ca ptives in the Kremlin.” 
at the request of his school-mate, young 

Nicholas, who was then only sixteen years of age, and who 
became Emperor of Russia in 1825. The petition for the 
release of the family was also granted, and the wedding took 
place, much to the dismay of the Bonapartes. 

“All that remains of the young couple is the recent discov- 
ery of a crest engraved upon a tombstone. The kind hands of 
their children had recorded simply : ‘Rest Their Souls.’ Below 
the crest, on a shield, is a rudely carved hand holding a cross, 
and on each side of the shield are the heraldic Guttes de Larmes 
(tears). Above the stone is the year of the invasion and the 
burning of Moscow. 



172 


The Count de Latour . 


“We have traced the family to Constantinople. From the 
Sublime Porte, we will advise you again.” 

I laid this communication before the Board, explaining that 
the cross on the abacus which I had found might be similar to 
that spoken of in the letter, and that the crest on the coat of 
arms originated at a very distant period, which had been handed 
down from one generation to another. 

The abacus came into my possession during my ramblings 
on the mountain where the spirit of Buddha is said to exist. 
When I saw it in the deep fissure, I concluded that some person 
had designedly placed it there, for it was dustless and clean, but 
disfigured by time. Who could have placed it there? No mor- 
tal upon this planet — it antedated the Christian era, and the 
lapse of time would have crumbled it to 
dust in the hands of mortals. 

Buddha, the ninth avatar of Vishnu, 
placed it in my path, and 1, the scion of 
the most ancient dynasty in the world, 
and head of the Buddhists, — one-third of 
the human race — was to seek the inter- 
pretation thereof. 

The finding of the abacus is not with- 
out precedent. Leaders of many relig- 
ions were placed in a similar position. 
Human unbelief is so proverbial that 
every member of the Board doubted its 
authenticity, bringing forth all sorts of 
plausible stories to confute my theory. They became agnostics 
when I showed them the metropolitan’s ‘letter from Moscow. 
When the interpretation of the abacus by Thomas Craggs was 
found to be correct, the Board became believers, and the whole 
world assisted me in the investigation. Private commissions 
met to give me every facility. They had no reason to doubt 
that the abacus was given to me by the hand of the immortal 
Buddha. De profundis. 

As Hierarch of all transcendental schools of philosophy, by 
virtue of an alter ego inherent within me, receiving a continual 
divine influx, the phenomenon occurring in my presence, cease 
to be miraculous, when logically explained. The exalted posi- 
tion I hold as representative of Buddha, “the enlightened,” gives 



The Count de Latour. 


173 


me the power of controlling persons by the natural, though 
uncommon, process of suggestive therapeutics. This power 
was given to me at birth. By the will of the great Unseen, I 
was led to see that my religion was for the few, while the many 
were left in darkness. The consensus of the world’s intel- 
lectual opinion admitted my power at our last conference, and 
I stand forth unprejudiced to proclaim the impotence of Buddha. 
He gave me the key, in the form of the abacus, to open the 
door for the Savior to enter and lighten the darkness of my 
countrymen. I summoned my courage to antagonize the deep- 
rooted faith of one-third of the race. My thesis was accepted 
by the most learned members of my community, who are gradu- 
ally throwing the shackles from the people who are under them. 

The religion of Christ is growing in the East. Buddha 
is silent. He never brought 
this sweet assurance to suf- 



fering humanity: u Lo! Iam 
with you alway, even unto 
the end of the world.” 


The next intimation I had 
was an anonymous letter pur- 
porting to come from Con- 
stantinople, begging me to 
discover by occult means the 
whereabouts of two girls who 
had been stolen, and signed 


“Killed His Jailer.” 


with the mysterious cross. 

How the writer knew of my discovery, I was at a loss to know. 

As I was thinking over the matter, another note came from 
the Bosphorus also. It urged me to repair at once to Constan- 
tinople. It was from the police, at the command of the Archi- 
mandrite, with immediate delivery. 

I found myself on the quay of that city Byzantium, re- 
named in the year 325 A. D. by Constantine. His emblem of 
triumph was a cross. The cupolas and minarets of St. Sophia 
were bathed in golden sunlight, rising majestically above the city. 

“We sent for you,” said the Chief of Police to me, “as 
the mystery is a psychological problem. The lady known as 
Madame Morin is alone, bewailing the fate of her two daugh- 
ters, who were stolen from her.” 


174 


The Count de Latour. 


“Let us visit her,” I said, “perhaps we may find them.” 

Madame Morin received us kindly, and at once apologized 
for sending the anonymous letter to me. 

“My family were unfortunate under Bonaparte,” she began, 
sadly. 

“A remorseful shadow seemed to dog their footsteps. A 
black skeleton clung to them, and I have inherited the family 
wraith, for I am controlled by an inner conscience to commit 
actions I regret a moment after. What an heirloom to hand 
down to posterity!” 

“Please come to the point, Madame,” I said, forcibly. 

“It begins with my grandmother,” she continued, “the 
daughter of Josephine, step-daughter 
of Napoleon I. and sister of Prince 
Eugene Beauharnais. ” 

“Hortense, the Queen of Hol- 
land?” 

“Exactly so. Her mother was a 
creole, of the Tascher de La Pagerie 
family of Martinique, who formerly 
lived in France. Hortense knew of 
the unbidden specter which caused 
her mother to marry Napoleon. Jo- 
sephine was a woman of destiny. 
Her secrets went from mother to 
child.” 

“Where is your husband?” 

“He left me soon after our little girls were born, and went 
away with my Algerian lady companion, who is a sister of 
Madame de Latour, now in London. I received from Paris a 
certificate of his death, with an intimation that he had appointed 
Count de Latour executor to an instrument drawn up in favor 
of my daughters, his wards, until they were of age. 

“The ecclesiastics of the Vatican and the Holy Synod of 
St. Petersburg possessed a knowledge, by the confession of Jose- 
phine, of the terrible horror in the family, and, in order to 
exorcise it, with my permission took our only son when a child, 
to be educated in monasticism in the Greek church. I have not 
seen him since, as it is best for us to be entirely separated.” 

It dawned upon my obtuse mind, as she said those words, 



The Count de Latour . 


175 



that invisible power was at work to check me; that I was to be 
brought face to face with this mother, whom 1 had never seen, to 
answer for the condition of her son, who had been given to the 
brotherhood by high dignitaries of monastical orders, only to 
find a premature grave. 


“His Emblem of Triumph was a Cross.” 

“Pray be explicit; keep nothing from me,” I said, appre- 
hensively. 

“I have been haunted by nightmare recently,” she con- 
tinued, “and I saw mountains. Amidst the range I noticed one 




176 


The Count de Latour. 


higher than the others. Upon that high mountain was the sign 
of a cross. It was white as snow; then it changed into a golden 
hue. The cross is our family emblem. Knowing only of 
mount of the holy cross in America, I concluded that I saw 
Mount Everest, and at once directed my communication to the 
head of the Temple, and you are here in answer to my appeal.” 

“Your discernment was correct.” 

“My daughters are wards of the executor of my husband’s 
will. The executor, Count Auguste de Latour, is my lady 
companion’s brother-in-law. The girls were kidnapped in this 
city. I notified the Count, who fails to acknowledge my letter. 
The authorities here pay little attention to such matters, as I 
am an alien and the relict of a French citizen. The Turks never 
enter each other’s seraglios. Women disappear often. There 
is no inquiry made and no redress.” 

“I will see the Count at once,” I said, decidedly. “In the 
meantime, dear Madame, be calm. I am at your service in 
trying to restore your daughters to you.” 

I hastened to London. The Count was silent and would 
disclose nothing to me, beyond that the property was ready for 
the girls when they came of age. Of their disappearance he 
avowed he knew nothing. The will was deposited in the vault 
of a Parisian advocate. 

I returned to Constantinople with many misgivings, and 
made the detective my congener in hunting a clue as to the 
location of the young ladies. In disguise we visited the slave 
markets. Children are bought and educated for these markets. 
They become beautiful and accomplished slaves. 

One day a body was seen floating upon the sea by some 
fishermen. It was a young girl. We hastened to the morgue 
and saw the sack in which she had been executed. The dead 
girl, young and beautiful, lay there. Her raven hair hung 
loosely upon the winding sheet. We concluded to embalm the 
girl, for the doctor showed us a birth-mark on her neck, which 
might lead to her identification. 

In our perambulations in the slave market we were fortu- 
nate to encounter a girl, the prototype of the drowned one. 
On speaking to her, we found her to be the girl we were seek- 
ing. She said her sister was sold to a Frenchman, who paid a 
large sum for her. One evening she and her sister were forced 


The Count de Latour. 


ITT 


into a palanquin and carried off. Among their abductors was a 
Frenchman they knew this by his accent — and it occurred to 
her that he may be the same man who subsequently bought her 
sister. 

I instantly purchased the young lady, restored her to her 
mother, and kept silence about her dead sister. 


Grass did not grow under my feet in going to London 
again, where I became the guest of the Count. I went to see if 
there existed any blood relationship between the two families, 
and why the Count was made executor. I had ample oppor- 
tunity of seeing him in his dressing room, and the ladies in 
decollete costume. Their necks were pure — no birth-mark dis- 
figured their beauty. 

Captain Adolphe Morin, the real Count, married the grand- 
daughter of Hortense. Their son was 
supposed to have been placed in the 
Greek church. At the solicitation of 
Irene Morin, her son, Julie’s father, be- 
came the Captain’s executor. The mother 
and son squandered the property of the 
Captain. Their cupidity was known to 
the Prefect, who allowed them to play 
upon the mercurial Captain’s generosity. 
They robbed him so unmercifully that 
insanity developed itself. He became 
j ^ morbidly weak, absented himself from 

“Beautiful and accomplished . 

Slaves.” his family, reported himself dead — thor- 

oughly hypnotized by Irene Morin and her son, the pseudo 
Count de Latour. 

The humane Prefect, believing that criminals are irrespon- 
sible agents, was lax in his duty. He allowed those two crimi- 
nals to effect their purposes without check. They could have 
been punished under the code Napoleon, being found in the act, 
Flagrante delicto , but the Prefect’s connivance in seeking the 
chaplet was reprehensible. He resorted to strong measures to 
obtain it against my injunction to get it honestly. The ministry 
overlooked his offence and he retained his portfolio. 

My friend, the adept, before burying himself in the clay, 
had given me instructions, and I employed my servant, Sandra 
Coitus, to work out the mystery in Fountains Abbey. 



178 


The Count de Latour. 


I visited the schools of art for a person whom I could sway 
with my mind, and the collaborator of this tale became susceptible 
to my influence. His mind was ready to act and be guided 
upon human wave- thought, with myself at the helm. That 
voice from the grave made me place its rag in his white kid 
glove. It also ordered my servant to the presence of Henry 
Craggs, to make him study art, as that was the development 
and inclination of the ill-fated family. 

Sandra Coitus struck the Vein of this strange mystery. It 
was a dark stain in the blood, and we tried to eliminate it by 
the process of prayer, invoking blessing upon the concentration 
of thought, as two or three of us joined together — such thought 
as came to the Sons of God, when man was in His own image, 
that this open sore and bitter affliction might be healed forever. 




Chapter XXVII. Testimony of the Prince of India 

( Concluded ). 

HE pseudo Count de Latour acknowledged 
his complicity, confessing also to having 
discovered his identity through two per- 
sons, his old nurse and his mother, Irene 
Morin, the rag-picker. 

Madame Morin, of Constantinople, 
was a Seer. She gave me a clue by in- 
terpreting the vision of Thomas Craggs 
— her own son. I visited the stones of 
fallen greatness at Fountains Abbey, the 
Alhambra and the Chateau d’ Arques, and 
found the interpretation correct. When 
I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery and saw that red line of the 
guillotine, I felt my mission to be of vast importance, 

By means of the abacus , Thomas Craggs saw the foot-prints 
of weary souls , away into the dim past, irreversible as the trail 
of the serpent. Conscience had drawn the sinful ones back to 
the scenes of their misdeeds to undo the wrongs they had wrought 
in the world. They had hoped to face their Creator with clean 
hands , leaving undone the things which they should have done . 
But , alas! How mistaken they found themselves, when they 
had the opportunity of observing the results of their sms in the 
capacity of guardian angels over their loved ones still left upon 
earth , who inherited their sins. 

I cannot say with certainty how the ancient writings were 
placed in the Alhambra, but I do know that if reincarnated per- 
sons dwell among us, it is probable that the writers placed them 
there themselves, and I know that they could do so unconsciously 



180 


The Count de Latour. 


when in a state of somnambulism, guided by the will of that 
same Power which led me to the home of Henry Craggs. If 
this theory is accepted, a reincarnated person is an actor of 
many parts on the world’s stage, thus Sardanapalus, Nero and 
Napoleon must have been one person, and Arminus Secundus, 
Josephine and Irene Morin one person also. 

On the other hand, the heads of the religious world have 
wisely abandoned the above theory, as dangerous to the estab- 
lished order of things, but they fully approve of my remarks, 
having sent this MS. back without annotation, but with a few 
words for insertion : 

* * ****** 

“If man is a predestined creature, the result of his former exist- 
ences, he must be his own predestinator and his own god. If man is 
not a reincarnation, he is either an Arminian free agent or an object 
of theistic fatalism. The councils of the church recognize the three 
expressions of belief or creeds as embodying the most infallible guides 
to Christian devotion. The Christ principle is the highest known 
philosophy for our needs. This fact is supported by many demonstra- 
tions — the result of the faith in those who are assured that the kingdom 
of heaven is within them. Although your religious feeling moves in 
opposition to the words of the Tridentine decrees, charity op'ms our 
understanding to find you guided by a divine hand, making you equal 
to the great uncanonized. The fearful spectre, controlling Arminus the 
artist, Josephine the Empress, and Irene the rag-picker, has been 
absolved, and will attack the posterity of Sardanapalus no more. 

“In admitting the abacus to be the gift of Buddha, showing 
you the key of Christianity, we have many precedents in the 
Bible, and in the history of the church, giving us courage to 
believe what our eyes see and what our ears hear. The coun- 
cils and traditions of the church support us in believing that 
you are spiritually endowed, free from superstition and labor- 
ing upon a scientific basis, leading up to the unanswered ques- 
tion of Pilate, “What is Truth?” We adhere to the liturgy 
and subscribe to every article of the Christian faith, which does 
not prevent us seeing that the discovery of the writings is 
another way of bringing your people to the Truth. We believe 
that the miracles of the Bible really happened. This belief 
does not prevent us accepting miraculous occurrences today — a 
logical conclusion. It is nothing new to be guided by visions. 
We read your MS. as we read the Pauline doctrine or the 
Latin codices. The investigation shows that disease is heredi- 


The Count de Latour. 181 

tary; that Christ alone can take it from the afflicted. Without 
Christ, it runs from parent to child. Without Christ, sin runs 
a fearful course, bringing a terrible end. Several characters 
portrayed in the writings show this too plainly. Christ alone 
can reverse sin. Nothing is impossible to Him, and it is accord- 
ing to His will that you have become His follower.” 

******* 

This sin, with remorseless fury, in the trail of the Serpent, 
this error of the inscrutable *hand of fate followed in the wake 
of two families— the De Latour and the La Rouge. 

The golden cup of Nimrod belonged to my ancestor who 
was besieged by the Macedonian King, Seleucus, in the year 
340 B. C. in the city of Seringham. The 
ancient clay tablet still preserved in our 
family reads: 

“By the hand of Damaichus the Greek, 
this account is given of his embassy to the 
court of Chandra Gupta, the King of India, 
peace being concluded by a treaty, by virtue 
of which Seleucus, successor to Alexander, 
gave his daughter in marriage to the King. 

“By the hand of Damaichus has the 
golden cup of Assyria been touched. Mace- 
donia’s daughter will snatch it from the 
heathen and place it at the feet of Diana.” 

The cup found its way to the tempio 
of Diana at Ephesus, and my remote 
ancestors were related to the girl Armino of Assyria. It is 
probable that there was a mixture of the races at that time, for 
nothing more is known until fifteen centuries had elapsed. 

The great antiquity which all historians ascribe to the king- 
dom of Chaldea, extending beyond the period of the invention 
of letters, involve that nation in obscurity. 

There must have been a severe struggle for the possession 
of the cup. Finally, through Christian influence, it found its 
way back to the Antioch branch of the family, the proper line 
of heritage. 

At last, after all these years, we have it, and there will be 
no more quarrelling over it, as it belongs to us all, and to no 
one in particular 

After being melted into nugget form by Domitian, it was 
used for so many purposes that the particles wore off, until the 



Damaichus and Seleucus. 


182 


The Count de Latour . 


little that is left was used for the chaplet, otherwise called a 
rosary. The Pater Nosters are marked by the larger beads 
and the Ave Marias by the small ones. It served as a counter 
during the recitation. The gold originally came from Ophir. 
It was pure gold, twenty-four karats fine, and being soft, wore 
away by the abrasion of time, as it came through the ages, to 
be a mere coating upon the base metal of the chaplet, and is all 
that remains of the golden cup of Nimrod. 

When the translation of “A Voice from the Vatican,” 
found by Thomas Craggs, was laid before the Board, we traced 
the cup in the form of the chaplet, and at once ordered John 
Craggs and the Prefect to find it in the city of Paris, where it 
had been carried by Irene Rene, the Italian widow. 

When Sandra Coitus, my servant, went to Ripon — I call 
him servant, but I know he is my relative; his name is the 
Greek translation of my own; by some means his branch of the 
family lost caste — he went to see Mrs. Craggs, the lady who 
was commissioned by the brotherhood to care for and hide the 
identity of Thomas, nursing him when a child, and handing him 
over to us for psychical research, by the endorsement of high 
religious authority. 

I can honestly say that' I had no ulterior purpose to serve 
when 1 received my orders from all the principals of the religi- 
ous world. I was fortified with an encyclical given to me ex 
cathedra, for the eyes of those only Vho were under its juris- 
diction, and I wish to include in this testimony my thanks to 
the heads of the governments who kindly gave me their valued 
assistance, and for their secrecy in suppressing criminal evi- 
dence, in order to promote psychical science, and especially do 
I thank those who ceased to pry into the affair at Cambridge. 
There is only one person who knows who committed the mur- 
der, and that person is myself. 

I am not in the slightest degree troubled about allowing 
that murderer to escape, for the deed was not done in cold 
blood. He was in a semi-trance, and could not legally suffer 
under the law of retaliation, therefore my testimony is com- 
plete with this one exception. I cannot divulge his name, and 
1 am acting in unison with high authority, whose motives are 
pure and holy. 

Sandra Coitus felt impelled to raise the stone at the altar- 


The Count de Latour. 


183 


rail in Fountains Abbey. He copied the hand holding the half- 
circle, which had been carved in the mannerism of old-world 
bas-relief. He copied also the crosses, and I found them to be 
the arms of Jerusalem. Argent, a cross potent between four 
plain crosses of gold, alluding to the psalm, u Ye shall be as the 
wings of a dove that is covered with silver wings and her feath- 
ers like gold.” This carving was made by a Crusader on his 
return from the Holy Land. 

In trying to ward off the evil, I deliberately placed Thomas 
in the hands of the only lady in the world who never should 
have nursed him, and discovered my error when I saw the vivid 
mark upon the neck of her son Henry. Instead of extinguish- 
ing the impregnating, poisonous fire, I heaped burning coals 
upon it, and felt humbled at my weakness, making the dis- 
covery that my arrogance in guiding 
others subjected me to the same treat- 
ment, when I was led to the home of Mrs. 

Craggs with the child. The mysterious 
mark clung like a vampire to the La 
Rouge and the De Latour posterity. 

Thomas Craggs died without know- 
ing that he was the son of the real Count 
de Latour. I regret having to say that 
he killed himself by his marriage. If he 
had confessed to me in time, I would 
never have allowed him to sink into the 
clay. He knew well that death would ensue. Why he did so 
the second time, no living mortal can tell. It was a foolhardy 
act on his part, against the wishes of the brotherhood. 

I saw Mabel, his widow, the daughter of Madame Morin’s 
lady companion, and escorted her and her infant to Constanti- 
nople. 

Misfortune dogged her footsteps. She had married her 
foster-brother. Poor woman! she shall never know it. The 
vein of evil that comes to the world upon certain people en- 
circled this poor young widow. Her unknown sin brought bad 
results, the error brought its punishment, and in her case, I, 
who am the heir of an ancient family, was impelled to form a 
resolution to sweep away that overhanging cloud and the horror 
from her. I followed in the footsteps of St. Michael, and with 



184 


The Count de Latour. 


my prayers labored to crush the devilish influences who come 
to suck the moral vitals out of people until they are so utterly 
hopeless. 

Has the mark of the “Beast” been upon them for genera- 
tions, with its curse hanging over them, or is it there through 
the reincarnation of demons, born again in the same family, 
eating itself into and absorbed by the bone and tissue of their 
bodies? The metaphysical thinkers of our conference gave its 
presence an emphatic denial, believing that God cannot be cog- 
nizant of evil, and that the mark is a sign of a diseased mind, 
existing only in the imagination of the afflicted, waiting for 
proper chemicalization to prove its non-existence. The theo- 
logians admitted its presence, believing their own eyes, and 
quoting the fact of Christ casting out demons and healing the 
sick, proving the palpable presence of demons and sickness. I 
accepted Scripture. We saw the marks on 
Henry and Thomas Graggs, and none of us 
are defective in eyesight. We obeyed the 
Master’s command to heal the sick and cast 
out demons, and the mark of the “Beast” dis- 
appeared. 

Mabel’s infant was stolen from her by an 
emissary of the devil. We traced it to a low 
quarter of Paris. That child was promising and 
beautiful. We took her from the abductress. 

Mile. Beauharnais of Dieppe, great granddaughter of 
Prince Eugene, who was at the burning of Moscow, loved 
Henry Craggs. They are much attached to each other. 
Where that attachment originated, when and by what means, 
no earthly power can tell. 

Julie de Latour carried a likeness, through the Moorish 
line of her mother and aunt, whose family must have been at 
one time a branch from the root of Arminus of Antioch and the 
model Irene Rene of Rome, hence the portraits in the Pitti 
Palace being so like her. 

The widow Irene, of Rome, who went to Paris with the 
chaplet, and the mark on her neck , changed her name by 
marrying a gentleman named La Rouge. 

Thomas Craggs, son of Captain and Madame Morin, the 
real Count and Countess de Latour, lies in his grave, a victim 



The Count de Latour. 


185 


to misplaced science and his own indiscretion. His widow and 
child are being brought up in the Christian faith. I have 
abandoned forever the primeval and effete doctrines of defunct 
empires. 

It is pleasing to see the child, who is descended from such 
a family, being taught Christianity by Dr. de Lawnay, whose 
grand parent was slain at the siege of the Bastile. 

Louis David, painter of the “Battle of the Sabines” in the 
Louvre, and several portraits of Napoleon I., was a master of 
his art, during the first empire. He descended from David the 
Spartan, whose daughter Arminus was one of the first artists of 
her time. Louis David owed his success to his ancestors. His 
biographers say he was a self-taught artist. 

The son of Arminus, the artist, whom she nearly strangled, 
was a soldier of the Roman empire. His posterity went to Pal- 
estine as Crusaders in the year 1097 at the call of Peter the 
Hermit. 

The heart of a Crusader named Louis David was brought 
from the spot where he fell during the siege of Jerusalem, and 
was found at the Chateau d’ Arques in a jar, close by the relics 
of his remote progenitors, the broken casque of the Spartan and 
the tiara of the ancient Indian King. 

Some of the Davids were churchmen at Fountains Abbey, 
after the Crusades, hence the U L. D.” upon the stone near the 
arms of Jerusalem. 

There is happiness in store for us all. I notice the mark on 
Henry’s neck is fast disappearing. I fervently hope this world 
may never see it again. Our efforts have not been in vain. 

When I sit in the studio and see how happy they all are, 
and how well they are matched, I thank heaven for the sight. 
It is due to the elevating power and purity of Christianity. 
The grace of God is within me and I am their brother in Christ. 

Henry has reason to be happy. He is pleased to know 
that Julie is his cousin, and I see that he wears a lower collar, 
the mark is almost gone, and he stands before us a new man — a 
married man, with a wife to guide him, unequalled in beauty 
and brilliancy of mind. Julie and her husband are happy too, 
and those two couple are kind and attentive to their depend- 
ents, who have been unfortunate through no fault of their own. 

The same question still comes before us, which has puzzled 


186 


The Count de Latour. 


mankind from the beginning of time, whether we are really our 
own ancestors. Were the torturing dreams of Henry Graggs 
the reflex of his own misdeeds done in his past lives? Was he 
Sardanapalus, Nero and Napoleon? Judging from his paint- 
ing made on the rag-heap, he must also be Nebuchadnezzar, 
Parhassius and Constantine. Was it by Divine will that 
the mark on his neck disappeared after clinging to the line of 
descent from age to age ? 

Did Henry Craggs carry the characteristics of Sardanapa- 
lus? Was he moved by the spirit of Napoleon, when he first 
saw his wife on the beach at Dieppe? Beginning with the 
daughter of Sardanapalus, was Mile. Claire Beauharnais his 
affinity through all the ages? Was she Ar minus, Joan of Arc, 
Josephine and (accepting the hypothesis of Dr. Charcot) 
Irene Morin. 

Was Gaspard David, the Italian artist, descended from the 
half -strangled child of the guilty A r minus? 

Who can tell ? 





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